Out of the Jungle
by Geschichtensammler
Summary: The toils and troubles of parenthood are not to be taken lightly. Two young men have taken on the challenge of raising a boy as their own, but it is an arduous path to adulthood, and growing up is everything but a unilateral process.
1. Chapter 1

Author´s Note: Thank you for taking the time to read this story. Feel free to comment positively or constructively, and I will be sure to take notes. Although I prefer the English/British way of spelling and formulating phrases, somehow the American way just feels right for the story. Maybe because I can´t imagine anyone beyond Scar and, of course, Zazu, say the things I´d write otherwise. So I´m quite certain to have completely mangled both styles, and I sincerely apologise to anyone whose reading experience is diminished by this.  
The story essentially takes place in a humanised Lion King verse, and there will be no added elements, no magical qualities, no romances beyond Timon and Pumbaa´s comfortable little partnership (yes, they will be together in the amorous sense, but I will also not include anything M-rated or too explicit; however, should you be uncomfortable with reading about intimacy between two same-sex characters I would advise you to turn back now). Additionally, I usually try to avoid OCs, mainly because they don´t usually serve a discernible purpose in most of the stories I´ve read so far, but I will mention some characters that don´t appear in Lion King. Rest assured they will not be important and will most likely only feature in one or two chapters. Some roles are filled by characters that you might not instantly recognise; I will applaud you for everyone you manage to correctly collate.  
At this point, I would also like to mention two stories that inspired me to post this one, namely Bookworm Gal´s _When Did I Become A Parent?_ and CheerUpSleepyJean´s _The King and the Coward_ , both equally important for their intrinsic qualities. If you have read them, you will notice some familiar elements that are unavoidable when dealing with the same subject matter, in this case Simba´s childhood and surrounding influences. Both stories also feature Pumbaa and Timon as key characters; the same holds true for this one.

* * *

Timon was not quite sure how he had managed to get himself into this situation, but he had a feeling getting out of it would be somewhat harder.

"Look, buddy, I´m flattered that you´d go to such lengths just for us, but I think I´ll pass on your generous offer. Threats kinda bum me out."

The man in front of him slid even closer, conveniently blocking his access to the room´s only door.

"Are you certain? I don´t make empty threats." His icy smile put any shark to shame. The only thing it got out of Timon was a grimace and a quick glance to his side, in pursuit of a pointy object, anything he could get his hands on.

"Ya know, I really think you should go now."

"I will. Just give the word." By now, the guy was close enough to breathe the challenge on his face. Timon was practically _feeling_ the killer waves, and he shuddered.

"Ah, what can ya do?" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Don´t say I didn´t warn ya."

Uncertainty flashed in the man´s eyes before they crinkled once more over a glare. "Do you think I´m joking? Come _on_ , what´s it gonna take to convince you?" And before Timon could step away, the guy grabbed his arm, effectively trapping him.

"If you don´t get your paws off me", Timon grunted with effort as he tugged against the tight hold, "you´re in for a world of trouble." The man was undeterred by his attempts to get some distance between them, and Timon would have been a lot more worried about his immediate future had he not heard the sweet serenade of thumping steps approaching their location.

"Sorry for taking so long. That darn document must have hidden itself…" The deep voice trailed off as the person it belonged to stepped through the door frame.

"…Haha. Ha. What´s going on."

Timon relaxed noticeably, and he noticed with immense satisfaction that his assailant´s hand had tightened with trepidation.

"Pumbaa. Gimme a hand, would ya?"

* * *

Pumbaa had woken up that morning with a hearty stretch and his usual optimistic outlook. He was a morning person through and through, rather unlike his housemate who considered the dawn of a new day a personal offense.

The day took a turn for the worse when he took a look at their calendar and squeaked at the red circle adorning the page.

"Right", yawned Timon as he shuffled by, hands clenched firmly around a coffee mug. "Realtor coming by today. Remember? Ya know, I left Simba with Rafiki yesterday. God knows the boy could do with a time out from your excessive spoiling."

"I suppose so", said Pumbaa, hastily retreating into their bedroom to begin his quest for a remotely presentable habitat. Meanwhile, Timon plumped down on a kitchen chair and made a grab for the newspaper.

"Don´t bother, pal. Nothing ya can do. In fact, you shouldn´t. They´re probably gonna find a reason to throw us out for good sooner than later. Why waste time fighting against the inevitable?"

Pumbaa groaned from beyond the bedroom door, mind conjuring up their last encounters with the prickly estate agent who had taken an avid interest in their property a few months back. His underhanded attempts at getting them out of their home had nearly stumped them twice, had it not been for the help of a few friends. Still, they could not be sure that the man would not succeed this time, he mused as he relocated his hasty procedure to the kitchen.

In any case, Pumbaa did not intend to give him the slightest reason to doubt their integrity and, thusly, their right to possess their cozy little home. As a result, he went into a cleaning frenzy shortly before every visit. If only he had not forgot about this one… What if they _would_ be thrown out because he had failed to get everything into tiptop shape? It would be his fault. How would he make this up to Timon, to Simba?

"Pumbaa." The man in question glanced up from the shelf he had been wiping for the past minutes to find his friend eyeing from above the ridge of the newspaper. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You´re using a shirt as a cleaning utensil." Pumbaa stared at the fabric in his hands only to have Timon´s deadpan remark confirmed.

"Uh. Sorry. I´ll… go take a look at the laundry."

"Uh-huh." Timon did not look impressed. But his expression turned fond for a long second before he hid his face behind a paper wall. "Just make sure to separate the colours this time."

"Ah, come on. A guy gets it wrong _once_ …" The newspaper shook with amusement, and Pumbaa decided to let it go. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

* * *

The ring of the door bell coincided exactly with their arranged appointment, to no one´s surprise. "I´ll get it", Timon announced as Pumbaa yelped, hastily looking around to get rid of his rubber gloves. "Take your time." He waited until his friend had retreated from the point of immediate discovery and opened the front door, frowning as his eyes fell upon the man standing in front of him.

"Huh. You´re not Bluebell."

The stranger´s smile widened in return, making Timon wonder if one´s face could split in half.

"Quite right, Mister… Matama?"

"Nah, that would be my partner. And you are?"

"Edwin Harrington." The man held out a hand, and Timon grasped it warily. "Mr. Bluebell is unavailable for the time being, I´m afraid. I´m serving as his temporary stand-in. May I come in?"

"Yeah, yeah, make yerself at home." Timon retrieved his hand, unnerved by the intense stare he was subjected to. What was that guy´s problem? "Pumbaa! Why don´t you come greet our… guest?"

"Coming!" His sturdy friend approached them with a friendly smile. To his credit, his welcoming expression never wavered as he spotted the stranger in their home. "I´m Pumbaa Matama. Nice to meet you. Are you from the estate agency?"

The agent nodded. "Thank you for your time. I would like to discuss an offer with you-" He was interrupted by Pumbaa´s alarmed intake of breath.

"But where are my manners? Can we offer you a drink?"

Harrington shrugged. "Coffee, if you have any."

"On it!" Pumbaa turned and practically fled towards the kitchen. Timon watched his retreating back and then focused his attention on their visitor, offering a challenging half-smile. "He´s not too good with strangers."

The man returned his gaze squarely, and the cutting edge of his smile intensified the uncomfortable feeling that had gripped Timon at first sight. "Oh, it´s no bother. I take it you´re more… socially inclined?"

Timon ignored the question. "Correct me if I´m wrong, but I´d like to speed up things a little bit, and I don´t think small talk will do the trick. Why don´t we sit down and get down to business?" He was taken aback by the predatory gleam in the man´s eyes. He was probably anxious to get his grubby paws on their property, the greedy bastard.

"Sounds great." They joined Pumbaa in the kitchen, taking a seat around the oak table. The big man held a cup out for the estate agent which was accepted with a distracted nod. His smile seemed to have frozen on his face. He shifted uncomfortably.

"So. What brings ya here? Do we need to pack up or what?"

"Oh, no no no, not at all. I´ve come to discuss some… options with you."

"… Like a business proposition?"

The man inclined his head, piercing eyes never leaving the redhead. "In a way."

"But what do we have to offer you?", Pumbaa interjected doubtfully. His forced cheer had vanished gradually. "And what would we want in return?"

"Ah, yes. I´ll tell you in a moment. But please, before we go any further", he gestured to Pumbaa with a swishing hand that might have signified reluctance or contempt, both of which further darkened Timon´s mood. No one treated his pal like that. "… Could you fetch me your deed of ownership? I´d like to demonstrate the matter more effectively."

Timon and Pumbaa exchanged a brief look, but when the former gave a shrug, his burly friend set out to retrieve the papers, leaving the other two staring at each other.

"What´s your deal?", Timon asked some seconds later, his inherent suspicion finally taking over.

"Excuse me?" His guest looked delighted, as if Timon losing his patience was the best thing to have happened to him.

"You´re not acting like the realtors I know. Sure, I only know one other guy, but he´s… sorta alright, I guess. Even if he´s trying to rob us of our home." He ground his teeth together in frustration. "But you! I don´t _get_ ya! What are you trying to accomplish here, huh?"

Harrington leaned forward. "Oh, I´ll tell you." And before Timon had a chance to react, he stood and trailed along the table towards his remaining host.

"Whoa!" Timon´s chair clattered to the floor as he got to his feet to meet the stranger on eye level. "What are ya _doing_?"

"Hey, hey", the man mocked with his car salesman voice, "Calm down. I´m not going to hurt you. Yet."

"Yeah?" Timon sincerely doubted that. The way that creep acted… It was like he was trying to get him alone. His eyes widened in alarm.

"Oi! Are ya gonna kill us? Because I´m telling ya, there must be better ways of chasing us out of our home. This is… _way_ too messy. Think of all the cleaning you´d have to do!" He backed up, hands shaking in front of him. Where was Pumbaa? There was a hired assassin in their kitchen, backing him against the wall, and his friend was off chasing some dusty documents. "Don´t come any closer, I´m warning ya!"

"My, aren´t you eager to jump to conclusions." The man came to a stop not two meters away from Timon. "Let me tell you something. We tried the friendly way, but if you don´t want to listen, so be it. You think you have a chance against the firm? I don´t think so. You don´t know how _easy_ it would be to get you out. A quick court order – I doubt you could afford a decent lawyer – and you are gone." He snapped his fingers once, twice. "Like." Snap. "That." Snap.

"And there´s always the quickest solution." He paused, presumably for dramatic effect, and then shrugged almost bashfully, though it seemed ridiculous in hindsight. "We´ll see how much you like your home when it´s smoke and ashes."

Timon paled rapidly, but he could not for the life of him think of a satisfying answer. The man seemed to notice his shock, and he lost some of his malice.

"Of course, we are always willing to grant another chance. If you would sign over your property to us – against a generous fee, no doubt – you could avoid all this… unpleasantness."

That jolted Timon out of his frozen state.

"Look, buddy, I´m flattered that you´d go to such lengths just for us, but I think I´ll pass on your generous offer. Threats kinda bum me out."

* * *

"Sorry for taking so long. That darn document must have hidden itself…" Oh, he should have been prepared. Of _course_ the man would want to see those papers. Hopefully he would not mind the wait. Pumbaa´s worries were gradually pushed aside as he heard the other two conversing in the kitchen. Apparently, Timon had managed to keep the guy occupied. Pumbaa nodded gratefully and shuffled through the documents in his grasp one last time before stepping towards the door. His feeble attempt at a joke fell utterly short of its mark, and his laughter faded.

"…Haha. Ha. What´s going on."

"Pumbaa. Gimme a hand, would ya?" The two men in the kitchen were standing way too close to each other for Pumbaa´s taste. Judging by the relief on his friend´s pale face, he disliked the situation just as much. In direct contrast, the stranger´s face clouded over with contempt.

"Would you mind giving us another moment?", he asked thinly. Pumbaa searched for his friend´s eyes. Timon shook his head frantically. It was enough for Pumbaa, and he crossed the short distance between them faster than could be expected of a man his size.

"I don´t know what happened here, but I don´t like it, and neither does he. You should probably go. Now." In a rare display of fury, Pumbaa puffed up his considerable chest and bared his teeth. The man reflexively let go of his prey and retreated a few steps.

"No problem. I´ll-… see myself out then. My firm will contact you later." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Pumbaa narrowed his eyes in a glare completely contrary to his pacifistic nature, and he fled. He barely registered the door slam as he took in his distraught partner. "Timon! What happened in here?"

Timon rubbed his face wearily and bent down to pick his chair up. "I really don´t have a clue."

"But-… What did he want? Did he threaten you?"

"… Yeah, let´s go with that." There was a tone in Timon´s voice that did not sit well with Pumbaa, but he chose to let it go. Timon was still entirely too pale for his liking. Pumbaa hesitantly put an arm around him, and when his partner did not react, the other one followed.

"Sorry I took so long", he said and tightened his hold when the other sighed and turned his face towards Pumbaa. Timon´s red hair tickled his chin, and Pumbaa readjusted his grip to peer at his face.

"Tell me everything."


	2. Chapter 2

Author´s Note: At some point I´m going to name the chapters. But I´ve yet to come up with a working system. Ah, well.

And here we have Simba in all his adorable glory. Since I tend to idealise (fictional) children, even though I know quite a lot of bratty specimen, I do hope you will set me straight if anyone feels bothered by my portrayal. Rafiki is another one of my secret favourites, and I hope you all appreciate how awesome he can be. Even if I don´t understand his obsession with fruit. Bananas, passion fruit, those weird melon-coconut hybrids he uses for painting, you name it.

Fun fact: Lions sleep up to twenty hours a day. Did you know? I sure as heck didn´t. I wish I could sleep that long.

* * *

They had not even considered telling Simba about the incident. The boy was still young, and they were both entirely too protective to bother him with such things. After all, he had already seen more than his fair share of dark things in his life.

It lightened Pumbaa´s heart to have the kid returned to them that evening. The boy threw his arms around him, already babbling about his "crazy uncle". In response, Rafiki snuffled, fond exasperation vividly painting his gnarly face.

"And then I ate a spider! I mean, I wanted to, but uncle wouldn´t let me. Where´s Dad? I gotta tell him, too!" Pumbaa pointed over his shoulder, and Simba ran inside. Judging by the surprised wheeze that followed shortly after, he had found his target.

"What a brat", Rafiki nodded to himself with satisfaction. "I look forward to having him again."

"Thanks for looking after him", Pumbaa said sincerely. "Hope he didn´t cause too much trouble." Rafiki side-eyed him, then straightened his spine with a sickening crack.

"Oh well."

"Nonsense. I´m still in my prime. I can keep up with the little firecracker!" He let out a high-pitched cackle. "So, how´d it go?"

Pumbaa scratched his head. "Well… It didn´t take very long."

"That´s great. So no change of address in the near future then, I take it?"

"Uh, no."

"Good, good. I told the boy he had nothing to worry about, but…" He leaned in and whispered wetly into Pumbaa´s ear. "He´s still upset. You´d do well to reassure him yourself."

Then he hopped away, uncannily graceful for his age. "Take care!"

Pumbaa watched as the man entered his battered old car and rumbled away. So Simba was worried about the possibility of moving? That meant he had a general idea of what all those visits had been about. Good grief, he was more perceptive than Pumbaa would have liked. Or maybe they were not as good at hiding things as he thought.

He dragged his heavy heart inside. The smell of fried egg teased his nostrils, and Pumbaa knew that Timon would have made a grab for the pan as an immediate response to the woeful tale of Simba getting fed only bugs and spiders at his mad uncle´s. The starving boy in question was seated happily at the table, slurping away at a tall glass of apple juice and talking at lightning speed as Timon bombarded him with questions in between the verbal surges, appropriately gasping at particularly daring parts. He seemed to have regained his good spirit, humming as Pumbaa nestled up against his back. They ignored Simba´s lout retching noises.

"You okay?", Pumbaa asked quietly, rubbing his cheek against the fiery top of his partner´s head.

"Yeah, yeah. But these eggs won´t be if you keep going. Move it, ya big lug." But Pumbaa heard the fondness in Timon´s voice as he was shooed towards their charge who was still busy expressing his disgust at their antics in various ways.

"Awww, Simba. You should have told me you wanted to snuggle. Don´t worry, there´s more than enough of me for everyone here."

Timon scraped some egg from the kitchen counter. "Ain´t that true", he added cheekily.

Pumbaa was too busy cuddling the protesting boy to reply in any way.

"Argh-… No, don´t-… You´re messing up my hair!"

"Oh! I´m so sorry. Here, let me give you a hand."

"What are you-…! No! Papa!" Simba squeaked and struggled, but he did not prevail against his burly father figure.

Dinner was a gregarious affair, with Simba pretending to mourn his ruined scalp, and the other two entertaining him by moaning about his near-spider experience. It was nice sitting together, knowing that their home was still theirs. Abruptly, Pumbaa remembered Rafiki´s last advice.

"Oh, Simba…"

The kid paused, fork halfway lifted towards his ever-busy mouth.

"It has… come to my attention that you expressed some concerns regarding… the possibility of having to move."

Simba looked away guiltily, and then growled in frustration. He obviously had not counted on Rafiki actually telling his caretakers about this. Timon looked up as well, and his concerned frown further intensified Simba´s guilty expression.

"That true, kid?" The boy flushed under two sets of inquisitive eyes.

"Yes", he mumbled sulkily. "I know you have someone over sometimes when I go to uncle Rafiki. And I heard you talking about it a while back. I just…" He set down his fists in frustration, and only Timon´s hasty grab for his fork prevented their tablecloth from being adorned with egg yolk. "I don´t wanna move. I have my friends here, and uncle Rafiki, and-…"

"We know", Timon soothed as he set down the captured fork on his own plate. "Trust me, kid, we don´t wanna leave this house either."

Simba lifted his head, the tiniest seed of hope taking root on his face. "You don´t?"

"Of course not!", Pumbaa insisted. "It´s ours, after all. Been in the family for generations. We won´t let any douche take it from us!"

"Language, Pumbaa", Timon hissed, but his reprimand was drowned out by Simba´s triumphant agreement.

"So the man who came by today didn´t want our home?"

Timon´s breath hitched, and Pumbaa felt his heart skip half a beat.

"How´d ya know there´d be someone over today?"

The boy shrugged. "Figured it out myself. It wasn´t hard at all! I mean, you sent me to uncle, and-…" he pointed towards the calendar, "there´s that red circle around today´s date, sooo…" He sat back with an aura of pure satisfaction.

"Oh, you…" Pumbaa was at a loss for words, but Timon leaned over to ruffle their kid´s tawny hair.

"Where´d ya get so much brain, huh? I know it´s not from Pumbaa."

"Not from you, either", Simba teased between his squawks of displeasure, "I´m not related to any of you two."

"Pffft, like _that_ matters." Timon said in a miffed tone, but the impish gleam in his eyes betrayed his elation about the fact that he had successfully changed the topic. Better not make any more promises they would possibly not be able to keep in the end. There were still too many unknown variables swimming around in the mess that was their living situation.

Simba´s fears seemed to have been allayed for the moment though, and he did not mention the matter again. When, at last, the boy had deigned to comply with their efforts to get him through his evening routine, they withdrew to their own room, exhausted and more than ready to bid the day adieu.

"Ya know…", Timon droned sleepily as he traced circles on Pumbaa´s warm chest, "I´m not so convinced that guy _was_ from the agency. Maybe we should-…" He paused to yawn. "Maybe we should call them."

"First thing in the morning", Pumbaa promised his friend, drawing him closer to his side with a strong arm and readjusting their blanket. "Go to sleep. You look like a badger with those dark rings around your eyes." Smiling, he took a hold of the hand that started to lazily flop around in the general vicinity of his face and set it back down on his chest. "On second thought, maybe not."

"That´s right, mister", came the muffled reply. "Now take your own advice and start snoozing. Tomorrow´s gonna be a looong…" Timon yawned again and did not bother to finish his sentence. But his point had gotten across. Pumbaa nestled deeper into his pillow and allowed his eyes to fall shut.

* * *

The following day tumbled at them, initiated by Simba´s cry of despair when he discovered that he had left his phone with Rafiki.

"Ah, ah! Young man", Timon consoled the stricken boy, "such woe, and yet the world hasn´t stopped turning. I´ll drop by Rafiki´s after work to pick up your cell phone, alright?"

"But…" Simba sniffled. "How am I supposed to play _Crash King_ with Nala today?"

Timon rolled his dark eyes, utterly unsympathetic to Simba´s plight. "You´ll survive. Now hop to it, kid, school´s not gonna wait for you."

"Like _that´s_ gonna make me go faster", the boy mumbled under his breath, but Timon was not in the mood to further admonish him. He zipped up his jacket, sorely aware that Simba had already begun to take his first steps to freedom. God only knew how much longer he would allow them to coddle him like they had so far. A warm weight around his body startled him out of the path his thoughts had taken, and he blinked at the sensation of his little boy hugging him, only he was not so little anymore.

"Simba", Timon said as he returned the hug, "you should really stop growing. Why, you´re almost as tall as me!"

"That´s not difficult", Simba told him loftily, but his skinny chest was swelling with pride. "Do you think I´ll be as tall as Papa someday?"

"Ya know what? I think you´ll be even taller than that." And Timon meant it; at the tender age of thirteen, Simba was close to surpassing him in height. A few more growth spurts, and they would have to install higher door frames.

"Yeah!" Simba disentangled himself from their embrace and pumped a fist into the air. "See you, Dad!" A honk in the distance told Timon that Pumbaa was starting to feel anxious about getting to school in time. Simba crossed the steps leading down to their front lawn in one great leap, and Timon watched him go with the achingly familiar feeling of loss. Then that feeling was replaced with dread as he stared at his watch. Work would not wait for him, either.

The day dragged on tenaciously, and by the time Timon left his office at the construction firm his head was pounding. Having to put up with the old man as he stopped at Rafiki´s to retrieve Simba´s phone did not help, either. While the two of them usually got along well, Timon found that he simply did not have the patience to make any concessions that day.

"My boy", said Rafiki when Timon snapped at him for nearly tripping him up, "you are only allowed to be this cranky when you´ve reached my age. Here, have a banana."

"Didn´t know there was a rulebook", Timon grumbled as he snatched the phone from his old friend´s hand, leaving the fruit. "And no, thanks."

"Wait", Rafiki called out after him, and Timon resisted the urge to slam his car door. "Have you spoken to the boy?"

"Yes, yes! All is well, now go dust your bone collection or whatever you old folks do."

"Manners, you insolent rascal! I shudder to think about what will become of Simba in your care. However will he learn the fine art of sucking up to the geriatric?" But Rafiki´s words reached only empty air.

"Ah, these kids will be the death of me."

* * *

"For the last time, Simba, I haven´t seen your pen. Maybe Timon borrowed it to write down the grocery list. Check in the kitchen."

As Pumbaa watched the child sprint off, he was struck by irrational fright. How much longer would they be allowed to remain in their house? He would miss the space, the homely feeling that came from watching the cluttered crooks and crammed corners (mostly filled with Simba´s possessions and half-forgotten trinkets; the boy had marked his territory thoroughly). And worse, how would their kid feel if he had to leave the familiar grounds, maybe even his friends? They would try to find a new place close by, but there were no guarantees.

"That´s great, kid", he said thickly as Simba raced past him, waving his pen in the air.

"You were right, Papa, it was right there on the table! Isn´t there someone at the door?"

Pumbaa raised his head and studied the slender shape that had manifested behind the front door. As the ring of the door bell held off, he concluded that his partner had arrived, grappling for his keys. Pumbaa wrenched the door open with a broad smile, wilting slightly when he became aware of the man´s strained expression.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"It´s nothing, just a headache. I´ll be fine." Timon slunk past him, then turned and buried his face in Pumbaa´s shoulder. "What a horrid day", he moaned as Pumbaa automatically slung his arms around him. "Let´s lock the door and never set foot outside again."

"You know we can´t do that, Timon. We´d be missed at work. Plus, Simba´s teachers would probably notice if he didn´t show-… Oh. That was sarcasm, wasn´t it?"

"Ten points to you", Timon mumbled hoarsely. Then he flinched as Simba shot out of his room and gripped his arm.

"Dad, Dad, I got an A for my history essay! Do you wanna sign it?"

To his credit, Timon recovered amazingly well, putting up a toothy smile. "Really? I mean, I knew ya could do it! Come on, lemme see it!"

"Alright! Uh… Where did I put it? Be right back!"

"Jeez, does he have a lot of energy or what?" Timon had sunk right back into his comfortable position against Pumbaa as soon as Simba was out of earshot. "Why is he even here? I thought he was supposed to be at soccer practice."

"Sorry", Pumbaa whispered. "Coach called in sick. They cancelled Saturday´s match, too."

"Wonderful. We´ll never hear the end of it. He´s been talking about getting square with that Kovu kid for weeks."

Silence reigned for several moments. Then Pumbaa bent down to press a kiss on Timon´s jaw.

"C´mon, grumpy. Let´s make you more comfortable."

"But I´m comfortable right here", Timon muffled into his shirt, his hot breath sending shivers down Pumbaa´s spine.

"I´m sure you´ll feel even better once we get some of those lights dimmed down. And how does some Aspirin sound?" Pumbaa coaxed his friend onto the couch in the spacious living room and went off to their medicine cabinet. On his way, he stuck his head inside Simba´s room where the boy was rummaging noisily through his school supplies.

"Hey, buddy! Think you can keep it down for a while? Timon doesn´t feel so well."

"Oh… Is he sick?"

"Just a headache, he said. It´s nothing to worry about."

Simba deflated a bit. "Are we still going to watch _Simple Minds_?"

"I´ll go and find out. You may keep looking for your essay. But remember", Pumbaa waggled his finger. "Silence is the general idea."

Satisfied with Simba´s earnest nod, he withdrew his head and returned to his partner.

"Simba wants to know if we´re still up for TV."

Timon had curled up on one end of the couch, tufts of his red hair sticking up over the backrest. "That´s fine. My head´s much better anyway. Thanks." Setting the glass with the pain killer aside for the moment, he tugged Pumbaa down to settle next to him.

"Aren´t you in a cuddly mood today", observed Pumbaa. "Not that I´m complaining." Almost as though he wanted to prove his point, he sidled sideways, playfully exerting pressure on his friend.

"Pumbaa-… Oof. Stop it. Us normal-sized folks need to-… breathe, ya know."

"What was that, midget? Couldn´t hear you over your pathetic wheezing."

Faint giggling distracted Pumbaa from his fake attempts to smother his victim. "Simba! Glad you could join us. Did you find your paper?" He eased up on the pressure slightly and was rewarded by Timon´s exaggerated gasp for air.

"Papa… Is there a reason why you´re trying to kill Dad?", Simba asked delighted.

"Hey now, kid", Timon complained, "ya sound awfully happy about my demise."

"You see", Pumbaa interjected loudly, "that´s what they mean by ´smothering someone with love´."

"That was so corny", his friend gagged, still trapped underneath the big man. "Kill me now."

Simba just shook his head in a gesture that was so adorably precocious that Pumbaa bit his teeth to keep himself from laughing. "But Papa…" He crossed his arms. "How will we watch _Simple Minds_ if you don´t pay attention?"

"Good point." Pumbaa allowed the other man to sit back up and dutifully budged at the vengeful shove that followed. Then he patted the remaining corner of the couch. "Now get over here!"

Happily, Simba pounced on them. As he wriggled to find a comfortable spot between them, Timon slid a hand into his pocket and procured the mobile phone he had found at Rafiki´s. "Here ya go. Hope ya appreciate what I´ve gone through for this. The old man was a right pain in the-…" At Pumbaa´s cough, he altered his choice of words. "Head."

"Oh. So that´s where you got your headache from." The boy nodded sympathetically.

"That's very perceptive of you, Simba", Timon said, and Pumbaa could not for the life of him figure out whether he was serious. "But I feel much better now. Hit it, Pumbaa", he ordered, and Pumbaa craned his neck in search of the remote which was, despite his best efforts, nowhere to be seen.

"Why does so much of our stuff just… disappear randomly?", he contemplated as he stood up reluctantly from his cozy seat. "I know I left the remote right there on the table. Simba, did you take it?"

"No!" The boy stared at him, pouting at what he probably perceived to be an unjust slight.

"Well, it wouldn´t have gotten up on its own. Alright, where could it be… Maybe someone dropped it in the corridor or something." He shuffled out of the door.

"Dad, did you take it?"

"Course I did, Simba. I think a little punishment is in order."

"That´s really mean. Also true, probably. Here, I´ll help you hide it."

"Thanks, son. I knew you´d come in handy."


	3. Chapter 3

Author´s Note: This is a short one, but I´ve felt it necessary to shed some light on how things developed over time (as you will find out, I have developed a taste for adding sprinkles of their past to present events. As a result, the whole piece has to be reassembled bit by bit by the Reader). They certainly didn´t go from distant strangers to family immediately, although I imagine Pumbaa, as portrayed in The Lion King, would instantly connect to the little guy whose story will be explored later on in the story. Timon would have taken longer, and I´ve tried to keep his sceptic disposition as much as I could. (Please note that I have toned down all characters to fit within the frames of a more realistic world than that of a diverging community of anthropomorphic animals, so they may act in a way that seems out of character at some point, but it is certainly _not_ my intention to embellish their individual characteristics and flaws in any drastic way.)

I have read up on adoption procedures, specifically between same-gender couples, and there was an interesting article about two German life partners who adopted a little baby boy. I have taken the liberty of incorporating some elements of the fathers´ reports into this story to have it resemble reality as closely as possible (even though, in this chapters, a lot of things are only hinted at and glossed over. More will become clearer in later chapters).

On a side note, I have yet to receive any opinions about the story (save for one encouraging remark by CheerUpSleepyJean which I have been grateful to receive), even though it has over a hundred views. I know it can be troublesome, but I´d be really grateful to hear about its reception, if something could or should be adjusted or if the topic is even of interest to anyone. I have looked through the Lion King stories, and most of them seem to be about the lion generations, centering around the conflicts between lions/Pridelanders and Outsiders/hyenas/etc., introducing a lot of original characters, fictional offspring of canon characters and romance plots. While I respect and admire those who choose to focus on that approach, it´s not quite my cup of tea, and I´m sure everyone feels differently about it. Why don´t you let me hear some of your thoughts on that? (But please don´t feel pressured; I will update this story regardless of how much feedback I get, even though, of course, opinionated exchange really makes a story come alive on a completely different level.)

Fun fact: Ernest Hemingway´s description of hyenas in his _Green Hills of Africa_ is less than fond; it reads as follows: "Fisi, the hyena, hermaphroditic self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad yowler, camp-follower, stinking, foul, with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves, belly dragging, loping away on the brown plain …"  
Yikes. And People wonder why their portrayal in TLK is so unfavourable; the Producers were just too literate. Obviously.

* * *

"Pumbaa, are ya nuts? Do ya know how hard it is to even qualify for adoption?"

"I know, Timon, I´ve read up on it. All I´m saying is we shouldn´t dismiss the option."

"The nonexistent option, you mean. We wouldn´t stand a chance. There´s laws and stuff to make it as hard as possible for people like us."

"But... don´t you think we should try?"

"And what if we succeed? We´ll have a brat to fend for. You gotta admit that´s not exactly up our alley. It would change everything!"

"Yes! Yes, it would. And I´m kinda okay with that."

"Pumbaa. It´s a bad idea, and it´s only gonna cost us time and mental health. Besides, I´m not ready for that kind of responsibility, and neither are you. C´mere."

"... I just... wish we could try."

"Oh, buddy. Am I not enough for you? Why are you so desperate to make that kind of connection?"

"No! No, no, that´s not-... You are enough. It just... It´s the two of us, and that´s always gonna be okay, but I just feel like there could be even... more, you get me?"

"I don´t know. I´ll think about it. Ah! But! I still think it´s a bad idea."

* * *

"So there´s this kid..."

"Oh?"

"He´s been brought in last week."

"Where are you going with this?"

"... I´d really like you to meet him!"

"Pumbaa..."

"He is really sweet! His parents were in a car accident. The father died, and the mother is nowhere to be found. No close family, either, and no one claimed him."

"Now wait a second-..."

" _Please_ , Timon! Give him a chance."

"Would ya just let me finish? Jeez. Now what I was going to say is... Alright. Let´s get to know him, hmm?"

"Oh thank you thank you thank you-..."

"No promises. We´ll see how it goes."

* * *

"So you are Simba?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hey, no need to be shy. Ya already know Pumbaa, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I´m his... very good friend. Do ya know why I´m here?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ya do? That´s good. So whaddaya say we get out of here and go for some ice cream? Do you like ice cream? Ah, I see you have good taste. So I´ll take it that´s alright with ya?"

"... Okay."

"Aaand he talks! Kid, I think we´ll get along just fine."

* * *

"Mr. MSingi, are you aware of the responsibilities caring for a child will entail?"

"Yes."

"Have you taken into consideration the severe life changes that will inevitably result for you and your partner?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain that not only will you be able to provide sufficient care, but also any additional individual requirements?"

"... Like..."

"A child needs more than food and sunlight. It needs unconditional support in his or her decisions. It needs to know someone is guiding its future. It needs love."

"... Yes."

"Yes what, Mr. MSingi?"

"Yes. If we get the chance, we will take care of the kid as if it were our own. My partner already loves him. As for me..." A wistful smile. "I know I will, too."

* * *

It had been the single most difficult thing in Timon´s life, even counting his precarious path to adulthood. And by difficult he did not refer to the long waiting periods, the excruciating inspections and detailed documentations of their life style and suitability for adoption, the hostility even from close family members, not to mention the gut-wrenching interviews.

Self-abandonment did not come easily to him, and although he had almost immediately developed a soft spot for Simba, he remembered how difficult it had been to openly return the affection Pumbaa had given determinedly and without hesitation, to both of them. The gap he was expected to bridge between him and the child seemed to expand. He was a natural pessimist (albeit he liked to think himself more of a realist), and his lasting relationship with Pumbaa had done little to change that.

Additionally, his partner seemed completely in his element. Not once had he expressed doubts about their parental undertaking. He seemed to breeze through the most confounded circumstances with an ease that Timon envied, smiling when he could have frowned, gushing when he could have wailed.

He had confronted his partner about his unflinching optimism once, when he had been on the brink of despair, watching their kid as he whimpered in his sleep. Simba had gotten accustomed to slipping into their bed at night, timidly claiming he was suffering from bad dreams. By the looks of it, it was more than that.

It broke Timon´s heart. Failing Simba was not only his greatest fear, but a terrifyingly real possibility as well.

"How do ya do it?", he had asked as his partner laid a gentle hand on the boy´s twitching shoulder. "Look at the little tyke. How are we supposed to protect him? What am _I_ supposed to do? Ya always have it down pat, but every time I see him like this I-… How can ya _stand_ it?" Pumbaa had looked into his wet eyes and shaken his head.

"I can´t. It´s tearing me up inside, too. I thought you knew that."

"What-… How would I? Ya always act like being a parent is the easiest thing, but it´s _not_!" Pumbaa made a shushing noise, and Timon slapped a hand in front of his mouth, anxiously glancing at Simba. The boy rolled over and resumed his strained slumber. "See?", he hissed, carefully keeping his volume down. "That´s exactly what I mean!"

Pumbaa looked to the side, thoughtfully. "Well, what do you want to do now?"

"Whaddaya mean?""What do you feel? If I weren´t here, what would you do?"

Timon swallowed thickly. He hated putting sappy words to his feelings. "I´d, uh. I´d probably want to make sure he can sleep alright."

"And that´s all there is to it." Pumbaa´s eyes were incredibly gentle in the dim light filtering through the blinds. "You see a need, and you fill it. We just have to make sure to be there for him, no matter what."


	4. Chapter 4

Author´s Note: Also titled _The Various and Wondrous Methods of Coping With an Unprecedented Situation_ , as demonstrated by Timon and Pumbaa. I have little knowledge of legal proceedings, although I come from a family of academic lawyers.  
We get Simba´s perspective at the end for once. I have modelled his behaviour as well as his favourite pastime after my experiences with my younger brothers who can be juvenile, surprisingly mature and incredibly focused on whatever game just happens to be the new fancy of their peers.

Fun fact: In Africa, hippos kill more people than lions and crocodiles. Go figure. I bet they´re lurking around, just dying to hurl themselves at you with their natural lightning speed, their inherent grace, their incredible reflexes, their-... Actually, how´d that happen?

* * *

"I´ve called the agency." Pumbaa had expected some reaction, but his partner continued to flip through the pages of an outdated catalogue as if his words had been a gentle breeze ruffling their nonexistent curtains.

"Timon?"

"Heard ya the first time", came the distracted reply. "Lemme just-... Ah. Blast it, that one expired last week. Okay." The pen clicked to a halt. "What´d ya find out?"

"They do have an agent with the name of Harrington. But he didn´t file a report on his visit to our home."

"Wait-... Why´d they tell ya? Isn´t there some sorta code of secrecy? Like, ´we won´t give confidential company data to external inquisitors´?"

"Not really. I think you confused real life with one of your movies. The lady on the phone was actually really helpful." Pumbaa smiled as he recounted his memory of the phone call.

"Lady?" Timon looked up sharply. "I see! Did ya get her all swoony with your deep flirty voice?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I can hear it now. ´Gee, Lady Phone Secretary, won´t you tell me about this man? He invaded our home and scared off my associate, but I chased him off with my manly ruggedness´", the redhead imitated his partner´s growly voice, setting his writing utensil down rather harshly.

"Are you jealous again?"

"... No."

"Oh... But then why-..."

"Maybe a little bit. A smidge."

"Awww, Timon." Pumbaa trotted over to his friend and cupped his jaw tenderly. "You are the only one for me. You know I´d never do such a thing."

"Maybe not knowingly", Timon grumbled, placated.

"Well, anyway. So we found out Harrington exists-... I mean, he really works at the agency. That means they are responsible for his actions. But if Harrington didn´t submit a written account of what happened that day, maybe he really is fishy."

"Ya think?" By now, Timon was anxiously chewing on the pen, ignoring how Pumbaa grimaced at the grinding noises. "The question is, was he backed up by them or not? And why resort to such methods?"

"Umm… Maybe he thought he´d have a better chance at getting us out of here by threatening us?"

"That´s ridiculous, that´s-… Hmmm, maybe he _did_ think he´d have a better chance at snatching our home if he threatened us!"

"… Sounds about right."

"Pumbaa! Do ya know what that _means_?" If Timon had acted nervous before, he seemed genuinely frightened now. "They won´t stop! And here I thought they´d give up eventually. But now… What are we gonna _do_?"

They both brooded over their dilemma for a while, but neither could come up with a solution. "We can´t let them take our home", said Pumbaa resolutely. "Think about what Simba would say."

"I´m trying not to", Timon whispered brokenly. His partner looked down on him, and he could not help but think of the first time Simba had shown hostility towards them. Sure, there had been frustration on both sides before. The boy had taken some time to get acclimatized to his new family, just as they both had to get used to a new constant presence in their lives, but Timon had taken it especially hard. That one time, when Simba had been unusually belligerent, going so far as to throw his dinner on the floor and snapping his teeth at anybody trying to approach him, Timon had been at his wit´s end. He had told the boy off in no uncertain terms, and where Simba´s eyes had filled with angry tears, his aggravation had turned into horror.

Pumbaa had pacified the kid with the promise of an extra large dessert and then gone to find his partner who had dashed out of the kitchen as if he was chased by a hungry lion. He had only unlocked the bedroom after Simba had told him through the door that no, he did not hate Timon, and yes, he forgave him and would Timon please come out because there was a biiig bowl of ice cream waiting that he _really_ wanted to try. The redhead had complied, and for the next few days, he had proceeded to make both of his family members uncomfortable with how agreeable he had suddenly become. Since then, they had found a balance, but never again had he gotten that angry at their kid, nor had he let Simba see his vulnerability when it came to his parental responsibilities.

It was only in Pumbaa´s company that his self-doubt resurfaced, and the big man could not blame him. He felt the same way. But… "We can´t let him down now. We promised!"

"Thanks for the reminder", said Timon bitterly, dragging a hand across his face. "Wake up, Pumbaa! That guy meant business. I won´t let our kid get dragged into this." Pumbaa cringed at the thought. Surely the agency would stoop so low... Then he remembered how far their employee had already gone, of what they were capable, and unbridled panic gripped him.

"Simba! We gotta do something but what what can we _do_ oh _what_ -…"

"Hey hey hey!" Timon shot up and grabbed his shoulders. Seeing his partner so worked up always brought out his protective side. "It´s alright. Our boy´s _fine_ , and we´ll make sure he stays that way", he said gently. Then, once Pumbaa looked at him, misty-eyed and hopeful, he continued, somewhat embarrassed. "Get yourself together, man! We´re no good to Simba like this. C´mon! We´ll sort this out!"

And for one bright moment, Pumbaa truly believed him.

* * *

"So, Mr. Matama, this ´hypothetical´ case of which you speak… Would the aggrieved party have any hard evidence?"

"Uhm. Not really, no", Pumbaa admitted sheepishly, shifting uneasily on his chair. The office was dreary and cool, like a well-polished steel table. Books were lined up on high shelves with neat precision. The man in front of him steepled his bony fingers together, and his crisp English-accented voice cut through Pumbaa like a death sentence.

"I must say, this is a rather dodgy situation. I´m not sure whether I´d be able to assist you in any way. It is, of course, against the law to threaten another in the way you´ve described, not to mention the motive of illegal material gain as such. But your word alone would not hold up in court, should you choose to pursue that option." He paused. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Please, Mister Domo", Pumbaa erupted, "there must be _something_ we can do!"

"I´m sorry", the man said, voice surprisingly compassionate. "Unless you have evidence, I strongly advise against a lawsuit."

* * *

"Could´ve told ya the lawyer wouldn´t be any help", Timon told him as they came together that evening, just the two of them. Simba was sleeping over at his classmate´s house. A faint smile crept onto Pumbaa´s face. He was immensely glad Simba and Nala got along so well. The boy did not always have it easy; usually other kids stopped hanging out with him once they found out he was raised by two men. As a result, Simba did not often bring guests into their home. But Nala only had her tolerant mother, and the little strong-willed girl did not care for other people´s reservations.

"I don´t see anything funny here", Timon griped, bereft of his partner´s attention.

"Sorry, no. You´re right", Pumbaa grunted, returning to the present. "What else is on the list?" And he pointed at the pitiable piece of paper on which they had collected every possibility of action.

"Weeell…" With a flourish, Timon crossed off the first line. "Not much. Next would be…"

* * *

"Welcome to Shadow Corporations, Accommodation and Relocation Department. How may I be of service?"

"Ah, we´re here to see Mr. Kivali."

"Certainly. Does he expect you gentlemen?"

"… No."

"Then I´m afraid I can´t let you in", the polished woman said firmly. "Please return when you have made an appointment."

"Drat", Timon said with feeling as he exited the tall building, Pumbaa on his heels. "If we call first, he´ll know what´s up. Who knows what excuses he´ll cook up for us!" He dug out their list from somewhere within his coat and eyed it unhappily. "So much for phase two."

"Does that mean…?"

"Yes, Pumbaa." Timon looked up to him, his posture practically screaming defeat. "It´s time for number three." And he pierced the list with his glare, as if he wanted his eyeballs to magically remove the line that read: _Patience. Wait for them to make the first move._

* * *

Waiting was a lot more exhausting than any of them had expected. They trod on a thin line between agitation and mind-boggling boredom. As a result, their arguments had taken on an uncomfortably heated tone; even Pumbaa let himself get carried away more than once. Still, they tried to keep Simba out of their debates, but even so the boy noticed that something was awry. They noticed with concern that he became subdued around them over the course of the second week.

That simply would not do, Timon decided. They might as well hand their keys over to Harrington the first chance they got if it continued on like this.

"Pumbaa, dear", he cooed as they sat at the breakfast table, Simba munching despondently on a dry piece of toast. The man´s brown face squinted suspiciously at him, seeming to decide whether to respond to the uncharacteristically sweet address or to discard it.

"Yes, Timon?", he ventured hesitantly after a few seconds.

Timon grinned triumphantly. "I think things have been a little… tense lately. I´d like us to get out of here sometime in, oh, I don´t know, the immediate future? So how about a nice relaxing trip, just the three of us?"

Pumbaa looked as if he did not quite know how to answer, but Simba´s sullen face lit up. "Can we? But…" He stammered a bit, and his next word appeared to cost him a great deal of effort. "I have school this week. And the week after. And-…"

"Kid", Timon interrupted him with a wicked smile. "Sometimes ya just gotta kick back and relax. You know, all that worrying about school, about homework, about-… _other stuff_ …" His glance to Pumbaa gave the man in question a foreboding feeling. "Whaddaya say we leave the worries behind for a while?"

"Yeah!" Timon ducked hastily to avoid the crumbly spray of Simba´s enthusiastic cry. "Where are we going?"

"Yes, Timon. Where _are_ we going?", Pumbaa asked skeptically, and the redhead felt almost sorry for the way he had blindsided his partner. If Pumbaa spoke up against the vacation now, he would undoubtedly incur their kid´s wrath.

"I thought we might pay Max a visit. He´s invited us before, if you recall. And he lives near the beach, so that´s a plus", added Timon, hoping that their various encounters with his crabby uncle had faded in his friend´s mind. The first time they had met with him as a family, Simba had been with them for barely a few weeks, and Max had not even come to terms with their relationship by then.

But Pumbaa, bless his forgiving heart, nodded after a minute. "That would actually be nice. You know, he didn´t even call me fat last time. I think we could make real progress this time", he said without a trace of irony, and Timon suddenly felt the irrational need to hug him senseless. Before it could come to that, however, Simba spoke up.

"Who´s Max?"

"That would be my uncle. Ya met him once or twice, but that was a while ago so ya probably don´t remember him. But!" He bent towards the boy, fingers fluttering enticingly in front of him. "He owns a _huge_ collection of soccer cards that he´s just _dying_ to pass on to somebody. Someone who likes them _just_ as much as him and who´ll take care of them. Think we know anybody like that?"

"Me! I like soccer cards!" Simba´s eyes had widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Oh!" said Timon with no small amount of counterfeit surprise. "That´s right! So all ya gotta do is show your granduncle that you´re _just_ as much of a fan as he is. You´ll have something to talk about! Pumbaa, do you think our boy can handle it?"

"Of course!" If Pumbaa had anything in spades, it was faith in their kid.

"It´s decided then. I´ll call Max after work, and you two try to figure out what you´ll want to take with ya."

* * *

"I´m not dumb, you know", said Pumbaa later while Simba was in their bathroom, brushing his teeth more or less eagerly.

"I never thought ya were", Timon agreed lightly, even as he had an inkling of what was about to come. His eyes were glued to the drowning dishes in the sink before him, and his hands mechanically continued to scrub them clean.

"Why didn´t you ask me before mentioning this to Simba?", asked his partner , rubbing a plate dry with clumsy hands.

"I thought…" Timon began cautiously. "Ya might have tried to talk me out of it."

"Out of what? What are you not telling me?" Tossing his towel aside, Pumbaa planted himself firmly next to his smaller friend. "Timon", he growled as the other hesitated.

"Hey, cut me some slack here", Timon defended himself. "I bet you´re as sick of waiting as I am. Am I right or am I right?" At Pumbaa´s concession in form of a shrug, he went on. "And we don´t have a lot of other options right now. Work with me here. What else haven´t we tried?"

The big man shrugged again, evidently not following his friend´s line of reasoning.

"Aaand that´s why I´m the brain in this partnership. I´ll tell ya!"

And he proceeded to do exactly that. With every word, Pumbaa´s jaw sagged a little lower, until it seemed that it had abandoned its natural range of limit. Timon tapped it close with a soapy, impatient finger.

"B-but… But-… What…" It was testament to Pumbaa´s peaceful nature that he managed to keep his voice somewhat calm. "I´m not so sure that´s such a good idea, Timon."

" _Au contraire_ , my friend. That´s the only way to go now, and if ya don´t like it, ya can stay out of it. At least _I´ll_ be doing something productive while _you_ ", he jabbed a pointy elbow into the tanned man´s chest and then paused while he mulled it over, "I don´t know, phone call duty I guess. Or ya could pray. Like _that´s_ useful." When Pumbaa warped his face into a mask of vexation, he chose to let go of that particular topic of debate.

"Come on, ya big wuss. It´s not like they _expect_ us to pull off something like that. We´ll have the advantage!"

"And there´s no way I can change your mind?" Granted, Timon was able to relate to Pumbaa´s concerns. Hell, he had brooded over the whole thing himself, but with every moment passing by he felt more and more compelled to arrange _some_ cautionary measures. That being said, he was not very confident about the whole plan working without some help. He _needed_ to get Pumbaa on his side.

"Nah", Timon said accordingly, cutting off Pumbaa´s next sentence off with an impatient hand gesture. "Trust me, pal, it´s the only way. Or do _you_ have a better idea?"

Pumbaa admitted he did not, and then, to Timon´s immense relief, he assented to support his partner´s suggestion. "But you will run everything by me first, alright? Doesn´t matter what. Just, please, tell me before you actually do something. I need to know you won´t go off on your own."

"Sure, pal. Whatever ya want." Filled with fresh confidence, Timon suddenly felt the burden of saving their home lighten. He had not quite realized how much he relied on Pumbaa´s presence until he had felt it fade during days of unsubstantial arguments.

For lack of dry hands, he bent to briefly rub his head against Pumbaa´s shoulder as a tentative peace offering and was pleased to feel him lean into the touch.

* * *

Simba had not felt that lost in a long time. He knew that something was going on with caretakers, but they did not talk to him about it.

Frustrating as it was, Simba knew deep inside that he would probably not be able to help in any way, nor did he really want to know about their adult problems. Life had been great recently (or at least before things turned sour in their tight-knit little trio). Who was he to _want_ to change that?

And now that Dad had proposed his plan to go to that guy with the sports cards, his day had become even better. Not only would he miss tons of school, but his collection could really use the boost! It was about everything Simba´s heart could wish for, especially since his father figures seemed to have made up.

Seeing them so harmonious once again made him really happy, even though he would never admit it to them out loud. He had expectations to uphold, after all.

They had been talking for a while, but Simba had not been able to make out the topics over the toothbrush scrubbing and scrapping within his mouth. When he had been done, his attempts to sneak up on them had been in vain; their discussion had come to a close by then. Right now, as Simba licked the rest of the toothpaste from the corners of his mouth, they were standing closely together. He felt briefly tempted to join them, if only to see if their little moment of peace would survive his interruption, but then his Papa drew Dad into an affectionate kiss, and Simba recoiled with the all too familiar horror of a child witnessing intimacy between its parents. Some things were just not meant to be seen.

The rest of the day flew forward as Simba attended school and then raced home to pack his suitcase and to help his parents bring about some order within their everyday mess. While he did not particularly stand out among his peers when it came to willingness in the matters of housekeeping, he felt that this unexpected reward in form of a vacation merited some good will. His resolved lasted for all of an hour when he sat down in between tasks and noticed that Nala had sent him an invitation for an extra _Crash King_ side quest. Promising himself not to play more than twenty minutes, he was yanked from the game by Pumbaa´s call for dinner.

Strangely enough, no one called him out on his conspicuous absence over the last few hours. Instead, their barely disguised flirting made Simba wish he had not parted with his quest. Alas, it was too late and he had to suffer the consequences.

"Guys", he complained after another of what he classified as an unjustifiably soppy display, or, in his own words, ´gross´. "I´m trying to eat here."

"That´s kinda the point of dinner, don´t ya think, junior?" His Dad really was in an extraordinary mood today.

"Uh, yeah!", Simba said. "So why aren´t you?"

Both men adopted that same peculiar expression that usually resurfaced whenever he did something they would consider adorable, or particularly stupid. He never knew how to classify the situation at hand, though, so he usually shut up rather quickly unless he wanted to be teased mercilessly.

But to his surprise, Pumbaa´s facial expression quickly gained an apologetic note. "Sorry, Simba. I didn´t realize we were bothering you."

Aw, shucks. He had not meant for them to take him so seriously. "Uh. Actually, it´s okay. I mean, it´s nice to see you get along again." He ducked, hoping they would not notice the blood he felt rushing to his face.

"Hey." He lifted his head to see Dad´s eyes resting on him. "We´re alright, all three of us. And we´ll always be. Ya know that, right? Pumbaa and I just had some… trouble dealing with something, that´s all."

"Sure." the boy shrugged, torn between relief and embarrassment at the reassurance. But his parents were not finished.

"But no matter what, we´ll stick together", Pumbaa insisted, and the earnest look in his brown eyes almost made Simba want to take back his earlier confession.

"Papa…"

"Because Timon and I love each other, and we love you very much, too."

"Papa!" Simba´s face suddenly felt very hot, and even his Dad cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Alright, big guy. You´re making the kid uncomfortable. I think he gets it, so ya can stop now."

"Not before I get a hug." Simba stared at the broad chest of his father with dread, already imagining himself constricted in his arms while syrupy litanies threatened to clog his ear drums with their stickiness.

" _Papaaa_!"

"No buts, my boy! I´m gonna get that hug, one way or the other. So what´s it going to be?" Pumbaa´s eyes sparkled gleefully, although his mouth suddenly twisted into a dramatic frown. "Oh, can it be? Has my little boy grown up so fast that he should scorn the loving arms of his parent? I must be having a nightmare, but no! I am wide awake! What dreadful day is this-…"

By now, Simba had chosen to get it over with quickly. When his father was like this, nothing except getting his will could stop him. There was also that treacherous little yearning in the tiniest corner inside his mind that longed to be enveloped in the strong arms of his father, boosted by guilt over denying the touchy-feely man his wish. At least, Simba thought as he felt those arms close around him, he would shut up now.

Then even those thoughts seeped away when he felt warmth suffusing his entire being, until his concerns over preserving his dignity had faded. It was a perfect moment, and it was made even more perfect by the feeling of his Dad´s presence lightly draping himself over his back, joining them in their togetherness.

"We love you so much", he felt more than heard his voice whisper into his ear, so quietly that Pumbaa could impossibly have heard it. "Don´t you ever forget it."

Simba´s throat felt funny all of a sudden, and wanted to say something, anything in return, wanted to tell them that he loved them even more and that they did not stand a chance against by how much his love excelled theirs, that it was not even funny how much greater it was, but he could not get the words out. Still, as one arm of his squeezed Papa Pumbaa back with all its might and the other found its way around his Dad, he somehow knew they understood.


	5. Chapter 5

Author´s Note: Establishing more of their individual backgrounds. Since Simba´s past will be central to the plot development, he won´t get much attention for now, but I hope you´re just as interested to see how his parental figures might have come together in another life.

Unfortunately, we know nothing of Pumbaa´s family from the films which means he could have lost them somehow. It´s entirely possible that his reaction to Timon´s question about being all alone indicates just that. But I always imagined him coming from a large family, being the friendly, companionable character he is, and to have lost them _all_ just doesn´t seem right, especially taking into account the human factor of this story. We _have_ seen the conditions under which Timon grew up, but they didn´t seem all that close to me; we´ve only seen his mother (and Max) really interact with him. In addition to his generally prickly and/or self-serving behaviour, he hesitates to return Pumbaa´s offer of friendship, sticking to their "acquaintanceship". I took this to mean that he didn´t have a lot of contact with other people before (and after, sure enough) meeting the warthog, which I translated into small family, little to no friends etcetera.

I´ve derived most of the characters´ human names from Swahili (although I can´t guarantee they´re all entirely correct since I don´t speak the language). _Tufani_ for example, Pumbaa´s family name, means "flood". You can google the other ones if you´re interested, or you could leave me some feedback and I´ll publish the rest of the translations in another Author´s note.

Fun fact: Bats are the only mammals with the ability to fly, which is just as well because their leg bones are so thin that they couldn´t walk even if they wanted to.

* * *

Living with Uncle Max was familiar in a way that every interaction they ever had with Rafiki reinforced. They really were two peas in a pod, Pumbaa determined when he witnessed his grudgingly fond handling of their little boy, only Max had a lot more bite to him. But as difficult as it was to get in the man´s good graces, he felt it was of the utmost importance to build a good or at least functioning relationship with one of his partner´s few relatives.

Pumbaa himself had several siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles and had grown up surrounded by family. Even after many of them had started to shun him, he had worked hard on maintaining close contact to the remaining part among whom were his parents and two of his brothers. That was why, in all these years, they had never failed to invite all three of them to Christmas dinner, even though they always made sure to show up late so as not to create unwarranted tension between themselves and those who had not yet been able to accept them.

But Timon had never known his father, and since he had grown up in another country under the loving and sometimes, as he expressed it, suffocating tutelage of his mother, the distance was simply too great for them to see each other more than a couple of times in a year. It was mostly phone calls with them, long conversations that usually ended with the redhead exasperatedly hanging up on his chattering, equally ginger-haired mother. She had taken an instant liking to Pumbaa, and he loved her just as much, even if she could be a little overbearing at times. Knowing how his friend cherished independence, he could understand Timon´s wish to get away from his caretaker´s influence, even if he himself was not quite able to relate to it.

Max was another story entirely. Although he had certainly never expressed the desire to get to know his only nephew, his sister had guilt-tripped him into arranging an internship for the fresh-out-of-school boy who did not really have any visible talent except maybe his vivid imagination. As a result, Timon had moved in with him for a few weeks before the man decided he had to go and found him his own accommodation. Since then, they had mostly avoided each other despite living rather close-by.

After Pumbaa had met Timon and they had moved in with each other, he had almost immediately introduced him to his own family, although it had taken time and a lot of patience on both sides. They were just so… different. While the average member of the Tufani family was laid-back, straight-forward and generous with their affection (once they felt it was deserved), they regarded Timon´s poignantly sarcastic constitution with disdain. Their first dinner together had ended with his mother tugging Pumbaa aside and telling him with a tone of fatality that he had better be joking with ´that churlish little ginger´ and what in the devil´s name had he been thinking, she would have thought better of his judgmental capacities and she could only hope he would come to his senses.

When time had gone by and her son still asked for permission to bring Timon along for family occasions, she had relented somewhat, apparently realizing that keeping Pumbaa´s partner at arm´s length meant also estranging her little boy. They had worked it out, and although Timon had not been happy with his treatment in the beginning, he had also grudgingly conceded that he could have been more agreeable.

Then Timon had suddenly found a few days of spare time, and he had obtained tickets for a trip to visit his mother. Pumbaa had been overjoyed, and not a little bit surprised, when his friend had informed him that they would leave on the coming day, in a matter-of-fact tone that utterly failed to hide his anxiety. But his worries had been completely unfounded, and he had later admitted to Pumbaa that his mother _was_ a lot easier to handle when her attention was split between two targets.

Pumbaa had deemed it a wonderful beginning, but soon after followed the realization that Timon did not have any more relatives to introduce to him, nor were there notable friends. It came as a shock to Pumbaa who had the tendency to put the man on a pedestal. After all, not only did he put up with his snoring, but not once had he derided him based on his lack of social skills. Despite his good intentions and welcoming demeanor, Pumbaa could not for the life of him figure out how to keep a conversation with strangers and even acquaintances going without saying something inappropriate, random or incredibly personal that the other would have been better off not knowing. It had cost him a lot of childhood companions and the respect of most people he knew longer than ten minutes. Respectively, during their first face-to-face encounter, when Timon had heatedly accused him of being a stalker, he had almost called it quits right there.

* * *

Working at one of the busiest youth centers in town had its challenges, requiring an iron-clad constitution and an endless amount of patience as well as a thick skin. Pumbaa possessed all of those in spades, being somewhat naïve but determined to give the best care he could to every single one of his little charges. He did not mind the occasional drawback, and the years spent competing and getting along with his older siblings had toughened him for that particular brand of work. Essentially, he loved his job.

Therefore, it was mostly due to his repeated insistence that the city decided to fund a playing field for the provisional ragtag soccer team he had managed to cobble together. Those kids needed encouragement and someone to keep them engaged, he knew. Soccer was just another form of communication to the little guys and gals, and since he still counted his own years on the playing ground among the best times of his young life, he chose to include the sport in the youth shelter´s program.

Having given the impulse for the costly project, it was also considered his responsibility to oversee its execution. It cut a big chunk out of his free time, but he could not bring himself to feel irritated about the extra effort. However, once the whole thing was set up, a first draft measured out and a design devised, the implementation proceeded smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that he was told to keep out of the way lest he interfered with their operation. He contented himself with staying in a corner located at the side under the large tree that shadowed the shelter´s forecourt and served as a makeshift Christmas tree during the winter months, watching as they laid the foundation.

He did not remember the exact details, but it must have been during the third week that he first noticed the odd occasional visitor. He was a pale little thing of a man, in no way fitting into the neat picture Pumbaa had of construction sites, with red hair so vivid that Pumbaa was certain he had never been there before, because how could he have missed that bright spot of color?

The odd man did not stay for long. He really only threw a glance at the work in progress and then stepped aside with another guy who acted as a general supervisor to exchange a few words. Pumbaa lost interest rather quickly. Nothing much was happening on that day, anyway, and as happy as he was to assist, however slightly, in the creation of something destined to brighten his children´s lives, he was also looking forward to a quiet evening at home to recuperate from the day´s challenges.

He would have forgotten about the strange visitor entirely if he had not reappeared the next day, and the next as well. As the days went by, Pumbaa got used to the man invading his little project, until one day he showed up early than on the other occasions, stomping over to the same supervisor he had talked to the day before and shoving what Pumbaa guessed were sheets of paper under his nose. He seemed to be having a bad day, and by the looks of it, the supervisor´s day would not fare so well, either.

Their heated dispute garnered some attention, but most curious laborers quickly returned to their previous assignments once they got a good look at whoever made such a racket. Pumbaa thought he probably outranked them, because apart from his aggressive tone, he did not seem very threatening.

Then the man jabbed an arm in his general direction, and Pumbaa felt the need to surreptitiously glance around. Nobody else happened to be around. With a growing knot in his gut, he watched the odd man scudding towards him like a tiny, angry, ginger whirlwind.

"You! Are ya aware that this is _not_ a public place?"

"Uh-… Yes, I…"

"Which means ya _shouldn´t. Be._ _Here_ , right?"

"…What?"

"Listen, pal." The man had come very close, close enough to shove his snarling face into Pumbaa´s personal space. "I really don´t have the time to deal with ya, but I´ll-…", he backpedaled to take in Pumbaa´s towering form and then apparently decided to take his fervid approach down a notch, "I´ll have someone remove you from the site. Is that understood?"

"Now w-wait a second-…"

"Skip the excuses, I´ve seen ya skulk around before. I don´t care what ya want in here. No one´s allowed at the construction site, not teachers, not parents, although ya really don´t strike me as one… What are ya, a stalker or something?"

Pumbaa was saved by the familiar face of the supervisor scurrying over to their location with the expression commonly worn by the bearer of bad news. "No, please, that´s, ah, that´s Mr. Tufani. He´s… responsible for the project."

"He is?" As quick as his anger had descended upon Pumbaa, it had simmered down. "That´s-… Actually, that´s great! Just the guy I needed to see. Why didn´t ya say something? Come with me."

Seeing as Pumbaa was too intimidated to argue and the supervisor too eager to get out of their way, he had no choice but to lead the man to a more secluded area.

"Look, Mister…"

"Tufani. Pumbaa Tufani."

"Mister Tufani. I think we got off on the wrong foot here." Pumbaa stared at the hand that was abruptly extended to him. "Timon MSingi. I work for MC Constructions, as I´m sure ya guessed by now." And while Pumbaa tenderly shook hands with the odd guy, he wondered why he had approached him.

"Now that we´ve gotten introductions out of the way, why don't I tell ya what I need ya for?", MSingi said jovially as if he had heard every word of Pumbaa´s silent contemplation, and he rummaged around in the big, rectangular bag strapped to his shoulder to withdraw a nondescript folder. "Those incompetent buffoons couldn´t tell me anything. Geez, who´s paying those guys, eh?" His whimsical grin got a smile out of Pumbaa. That man was strange and possibly bipolar, what with his rapidly changing mood, but he suddenly did not seem so terrifying anymore.

"I think you are?"

"Come again?"

"You´re paying them. Or your company is, at least. Isn´t it?", Pumbaa said and wished he had kept his mouth shut as the man threw him a queer look. But then he shrugged, evidently not caring about the implications of Pumbaa´s awkward quip.

"Ah, you´re probably right", the guy said dismissively and opened his folder, accompanied by Pumbaa´s sigh of relief. It must have been his lucky day. "Now tell me exactly at what point ya want them to stop digging, ´cause at this rate they´re gonna cut down that tree you seem to like so much."

His queries did not end there, and when the man cut himself off with a glance at his watch, Pumbaa felt almost disappointed. Seldom had he exchanged so many words with the same person in one session, and the guy was the first to find his joke about beetles hilarious.

"I´ll be off then. Guess we were both lucky for running into each other", MSingi remarked as he shuffled the paper spread back into his bag. "Ya get to keep your tree and I won´t have to deal with the complaints later. Ya wouldn´t _believe_ how many times they start building and _then_ asking questions. I mean, is it so hard to use a brain?"

"I… guess not", Pumbaa ventured slowly, and the man slapped him on the shoulder, grinning widely. "Exactly. You´re alright, big boy." Before Pumbaa could so much as blink at the compliment, he was already halfway out of the door, coat slung over his arm; it had become a warm day. "I´ll be back next week to check in on the progress. Since you seem to hang around here anyway, I´ll come see you if there´s anything else to discuss, and it´s not like you´re difficult to find", he called over his shoulder. "So see ya around."

* * *

There had been many other questions, and by the time the playing ground had been fit to play on, they had already abandoned their easy camaraderie and moved into the perilous but oh so rewarding territory of friendship. It had been a first for Pumbaa, and if the way Timon had behaved was any indicator, trying to keep him at arm´s length every step of the way and then awkwardly apologizing, he had not been a social butterfly either.

All the more tragic was his lack of relatives to Pumbaa, which was one of the reasons why he had remained so adamant about keeping in touch with Max instead of his well-practiced motto of _live and let live_. Once the man had stopped glaring in his general direction, it had even become somewhat of a pleasure, as the old man liked to tell stories about his nephew. By now, Pumbaa knew more about young Timon´s failures, mishaps and screw-ups than he would ever be able to recall in the long term.

The other thing Max took pleasure from was gardening. Never failing to get up in the morning in time with the rising sun, he could be found walking on the moist grass, grumbling about fresh roots and weeds he would have to remove and bulbs that had failed to bloom to life. If Pumbaa remembered correctly, complimenting the man on his garden had been a turning point as it had been the first time his words had been met with something other than disdain or sarcasm (or at least he believed it to be so; he sometimes had difficulties judging whether a person was serious or joking).

It was an impressive expanse of greenery, surrounded by luscious shrubs and trees that bloomed beautifully in the warm months and bore apples and quinces in autumn. Over the last couple of years, during those days when the fruit began to ripen, they had received cautious invitations to come over and help the man out. Usually, he had done it all himself, the gathering and cooking and preserving and storing of myriads of little jars, stocked away safely to get Max through the cold months and to occasionally be given away as little gifts if someone had managed to get him- or herself in his good graces. But as he got older and his health more demanding, he had suddenly discovered the merits of gratuitous assistance from young folk who did not throw out their backs fetching apples from the ground.

There was always something to do, whether it was helping with garden work (but not with the herbage beds, because, as Max had insisted, those were "too delicate to be handled by whippersnappers like you") or clearing out the attic, a feat on which they had spent more than a few hours without visible progress. Sticking firmly to this principle, they had barely begun to get out of the car when Max had rushed towards them. Timon had watched warily, because their usual greeting consisted of them hammering on the door for ten minutes before the man bothered to open up. Pumbaa was stumped as well and held his breath, waiting for an emergency to make itself known. Instead, Max went straight up to him and pressed two heavy bags of what he discovered to be chicken feed into his arms.

"Keep the engine going", he muttered, turning back instantly and meticulously treading around Simba on his way towards the house, "there´s more where that came from, and I´ve got a schedule to keep."

"He must have really taken a liking to ya, trusting ya with his precious chicken fodder like that", Timon whispered as Max shuffled off, amusement written plainly on his face.

"I… don´t…", Pumbaa said, feeling perplexed as Simba jumped around him, shouting for a bag of his own, presumably to use it for tossing practice.

"Me neither, buddy. Me neither." Timon patted his arm and began unload their belongings from the trunk. "Let´s go make ourselves at home."


	6. Chapter 6

Autor´s Note: Introducing the villain who should look familiar to the average Lion King enthusiast. The secretary is also based on a canon character. Her name (as well as her affiliation) should be a hint.

I would also like to thank the Guest whose comment on the Story made me very happy and motivated me to post my next update. Additionally, I have attended the Lion King Musical in Hamburg yesterday and was blown away by the fantastic performance of everyone involved. It was my favourite aspect of the year so far (even though I have some police charge to deal with now; turns out they didn´t like me bringing my knuckleduster to the show). If you have seen the show, perhaps in London or New York or wherever else, you know what I´m talking about. For the rest of you, it was worth every penny, cent, yen and pesos.

Fun fact: A flamingo´s distinctive colouring stems from eating shrimp as a large part of their regular diet. I wonder if a human would be affected by eating a lot of shrimps. Since I´m not particularly fond of the colour pink and I also don´t like shrimp, I should be in the clear either way.

* * *

Their impromptu vacation imparted to them a deceptive sense of tranquility, and Timon was almost tempted to let all matters rest for a while. Almost being the key word, because as soon as he heard Simba describe his weekly routine to Uncle Max in excruciating detail, he was once more overcome by the urge to act fast.

"Pumbaa", he called out on the second day following their arrival, using the convenient absence of Max and Simba who had went shopping for groceries, "I´m gonna head out to talk to Kivali tomorrow. Ya wanna come, or would ya rather stay here and keep an eye on the kid?"

"Already?" Pumbaa was mystified. "I thought-..."

"That I was just going to sit around here? Could´ve done that at home, don´tcha think?"

"But what makes you think he´ll talk to you?"

"Oh, he´ll have no choice", Timon said grimly and held his hand out to his friend, facing upwards. On his palm lay two little objects, barely bigger than grapes and metallic smooth. "I found these in our living room. They´re some kind of cameras, from what I´ve been told. What do ya wanna bet our realtor friend put ´em there?"

"These are-... Harrington? But he didn´t-..."

"Not him! He didn´t go into that room, I know. I´m talking about Bluebell. He must have smuggled them in. And this means..." Timon started pacing. "This has been going on for some months now. They´re preparing for something, I just know it."

"... Bugs... in our living room." Apparently, the big guy had trouble working through the unexpected revelation. "That´s awful, that´s-... _terrible_ -...

"Yes", snapped Timon impatiently. "also highly illegal. I don´t feel any better about this than you do, but now we´ve got something to hold over his head. I´m gonna confront him about it, see what he comes up with. Who knows", he shrugged, "he might even leave us alone after this. I mean, he´s gonna want to avoid a lawsuit, right? Our home can´t be _that_ important to him."

"I don´t-..." Pumbaa was interrupted by frantic knocking on the front door. They could hear Simba´s muffled voice calling out to them excitedly through the door.

"Well, I´m going. What you wanna do is up to you", Timon stated with a tone of finality and walked up to the door, shouting as he went. "Alright, alright, ya little rascal, I´m coming. Didn´t I teach you the basic concept of patience? It´s not like-..." He did not get any further, because Simba had already pushing against the barrier when Timon pressed the handle down. With a dull thud, the door connected with Timon´s face. He stumbled back with a gasp, hand shooting up to the struck spot.

"Dad. I-... Dad?" Simba´s face fell when he connected the dots. "Ah! Sorry!"

"Geez, kid, ya really know how to keep a guy on his toes", Timon moaned, but he was careful to keep any trace of accusation out of his voice. After all, he could hardly blame the boy for being his youthful excited self.

"I-... I didn´t mean to..." No, no, no, surely the kid would not... Yup, there came the tears.

"Hey, hey! Simba. Simba, look at me. I´m okay, really. Here, look, it´s fine, see? Eye still intact and everything." He knelt in front of the weeping child and gently guided his eyes to meet his face. Simba sniffled loudly, but when he failed to discover blood or any serious injury on his father figure´s face, he calmed. "There ya go. Accidents can happen, and there´s nothing ya can do about it. Just be a little more careful next time, okay?"

Simba nodded, even if he looked doubtful about the feasibility of Timon´s request. Then he started as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, tugging him aside. "What´s all the commotion about, brat? Move aside, I´ve got perishables here, and all kinds of heavy stuff since _somebody_ didn´t bother to help an old man unload the trunk", Max growled, almost stepping over Timon still kneeling on the floorboards. "Move aside, nephew, you´re blocking my way."

Simba slunk after him with hanging shoulders, obviously still upset over his carelessness and presumably to obey the unspoken command from the grizzly old man he already had come to adore over just a few days, God (or possibly other deity up above) only knew why. But Timon was uncertain as to what else he could do to placate the boy, and he took comfort in the certainty that Simba would have forgotten the incident by the next day. Gingerly, he tipped a finger against the sore skin around his eye. It did not even hurt all that much.

Within seconds, his finger was replaced by a wet, cool towel. "Here, keep it there for a while until I find an ice pack or something." Pumbaa could move surprisingly fast for a man his size.

"Thanks, dear", he replied a good deal more affectionately than he cared to admit. That blow had probably knocked something loose in his brain, or maybe he had just become that sappy over the years. Max seemed to have come to the same conclusion, judging from the discontented grunt that immediately followed his exclamation. "Love ya", he added even louder, purely out of spite. That geezer deserved every ounce of mush.

A positive side-effect was Pumbaa´s exorbitant mood following his declaration; he tended to soak up every last bit of kindness sent his way, especially if it came from his partner who never held back his opinion on matters except the touchy-feely ones. But Timon rarely saw the need to serenade his companion. He was a firm supporter of the principle laying down that action spoke louder than words. Only in rare cases such as this one, and this time with an ulterior motive, did he make a verbal effort.

Even Simba had caught some of Pumbaa´s high spirits, and by the time they put him to bed he was already back to whining for extra time.

"Na-ah. Not a chance, kid. Ya need to sleep, it´s been a long day."

"But I´m not tired yet!"

If Simba still thought the age-old excuse would work in his favor, he was not quite as clever as Timon had thought. "You´ll be in no time. Besides, you´re gonna need your strength."

"But _why_?"

"Ah! It´s a surprise. You´re gonna hafta wait until tomorrow."

" _What_? I´m never gonna be able to sleep _now_!" The pleading puppy-dog eyes sent in his direction would have sent Pumbaa spilling all his secrets instantly. Timon stared for a long moment.

"Alright, I suppose telling ya now won´t hurt anyone." Okay, so maybe Pumbaa was not the only one affected. He instantly regretted his concession when Simba´s face contorted into triumphant satisfaction.

"Huh. So, you know that game you were talking about the other day, the, uh, _Hacking Hyenas_ going up against... against..."

"Dad. It´s the _Howling Hyenas_ , and they´re playing against the _Pride Rock Lions_. It´s about who reaches the table top."

"Yes, that. Well, Pumbaa called in a favor and got two tickets. Uncle Max already agreed to take you", he wisely mentioned the enormous effort it had taken to convince his uncle, "but Pumbaa and _oof!_ "

All thoughts of sleeping forgotten, Simba had leapt out of his covers, caught the redhead in a powerful squeeze and then sprinted off in search to find his other parent. His incoherent squealing elicited an angry litany from Max who had already retired to his bedroom, but it did not manage to get the boy´s mood down in the slightest, judging by the joyous hoots of which Timon only caught about every fourth word.

"Not bad, Pumbaa", he mumbled more to himself than the absent man in question. "Not bad at all.

* * *

"And please keep him out of trouble. And if he loses his scarf, you´ll have to buy him another one – we´ll match your expenses, of course – and don´t let him have more than one snack serving, it´s not healthy for him." Pumbaa was in his element, skillfully ignoring the fuming old man in front of him. When he paused to breathe, Max grabbed the chance with both hands.

"I _GOT_ it! What´s the matter with you? Don´t tell me how to treat your kid, I know how to deal with a young sprout like him." He practically shoved Simba to his car, anxious to get away from the child´s overprotective parent. "You _OWE_ me", his farewell words were cut off by the car door slamming shut and the engine roaring to life. The last thing Pumbaa and Timon saw of their boy was his rosy face pressed to the window, the tip of his nose drawing funny shapes on the breath-stained glass.

They remained silent for a moment, watching the car rudely honk at a pedestrian.

"We should go", Timon then said, and he unceremoniously snatched the car keys from Pumbaa´s fidgeting hands.

"... Right", Pumbaa agreed belatedly, trotting after his partner. "Do we have a strategy?"

"Strategy?" The redhead shook his head disapprovingly and bared his teeth in mock-agression. "Sweet, naive Pumbaa, we don´t _need_ a strategy. Once we get there, we´ll march straight in, hold our evidence under the guy´s nose, and he´ll be all like, oh no! You have discovered my secret! I will do whatever you want."

"Isn´t that a kind of strategy?"

"... Never mind that. Point is, it´ll be easy as cake. You´ll see."

* * *

True to his words, the secretary waved them through without further ado. "He said you might come by", she told them ominously, sharp smile gleamed in her dark face.

Right on cue, the door to her left opened, and a cultivated voice rang out like honeyed smoke. "Shannon, I´m going out for-... Ah. Never mind."

Pumbaa started as his partner pointed at the stranger in disbelief. "I know _you_. You´re Kivali?", Timon said accusingly.

"That´s me." The man lifted a brow. "But doubt we ever had the pleasure of meeting. I´d have remembered for sure."

"You were at one of my interview from the adoption agency! I mean, not _there_ there, but I definitely saw ya leaving the building."

"How interesting", the man smile, and piercing green eyes flickered between them, as if he was seizing them up for further notice. "Maybe we can get to the bottom of things in my office, hmm?" He disappeared behind the door, and Pumbaa nudged his friend who was, by all appearances, distracted by this unexpected new piece of information.

"Timon. He invited us in."

"Huh? Yes. Let´s go."

They followed the man through the elegant entrance into a lavishly decorated room. Everything was kept meticulously clean and tidy, but Pumbaa failed to spot any personal touches, let alone pictures, and he deduced that either this man did not spend much time here or he was a cold-blooded fellow. The only thing that did not look work-related was the large birdcage placed inobtrusively in a corner. The blue-feathered inhabitant had its tiny head tucked into a wing, seemingly sleeping.

"So. Why have you come?"

Pumbaa looked over to Timon who usually did the talking for both of them. He did not disappoint this time, either.

"Ya know exactly why we´re here. Ya have _no_ business taking over our home. I don´t know what you´d even _want_ with the old thing. What _we_ want is for you to stop going after it."

"Hmm. I´m afraid I can´t do that." The man leaned back in his leather seat with the aura of a cat that, while it had not yet gotten the cream, was certainly closing in on the tasty treat.

"Whaddaya talking about, of course ya can. But if ya need more convincing, why don´t ya explain _this_?" He tossed the small devices from their living room on the desk between them. The man´s eyes flickered down, expression remaining detached.

"Am I supposed to be impressed? What is this?"

"They´re yours. They must be! And ya had _no right_ sticking us with that stuff. If ya don´t back off, you´re in for a _lot_ of trouble, pal", Timon persisted angrily, and although Pumbaa admired his friend´s tenacity, it did not seem to yield a useful result. Kivali continued to watch them like a hungry predator.

"Such a shame you don´t have any proper evidence then, tying me to these... things you seem to despise so much." Pumbaa watched the man´s shark-smile grow with fear pooling into his stomach. The guy had a point. They did not. They had nothing.

"Tell you what", Kivali purred. "I´ll forget about your baseless accusations, and we move forward. Surely we can come to _some_ kind of agreement?" Pumbaa would have felt better about that olive branch if the peace offering had not felt so false. It was as if the man could not care less about their cooperation.

"What kind of agreement?", he spoke up for the first time, and Timon´s head whipped towards him, appalled.

"We don´t make deals with that, that-... _snake_ , Pumbaa! He sent people to spy on us, threaten us, and you´re _okay with that_?"

"No, it´s alright", Pumbaa sought to appease his partner. "But it couldn´t hurt to at least hear him out, could it?"

"... Have it your way", Timon huffed and let himself fall in one of the chairs conveniently standing nearby. Pumbaa took a seat next to him, carefully easing into the comfy cussions and clinging to the fading hope of an amicable resolution.

"I see you are a man of reason", Kivali said, turning his full attention to Pumbaa. "The truth is, I don´t need your house, I don´t want your land, and I have no particular interest in chasing you out of your home."

"Then why-..."

"You have something of mine. I would like it back."

Pumbaa shared a quick look with his partner, but Timon did not appear to know what the man was referring to, either. "And what´s that supposed to be?", the redhead snapped impatiently, only to freeze as the man´s answer rang through his office.

"The child."


	7. Chapter 7

Author´s Note: Thanks to the guest with the Random Name for his/her/their kind words. It does raise the motivation to continue writing.

So there´s going to be friction between several characters in this chapter. Be warned - the drama won´t stop in the conceivable future. There are also football references. The European kind, not the American kind. I wonder if anyone reading this likes football just as much as I do, although the teams I support are currently going through some rough times.

Fun Fact: Camels don´t die of thirst if they find themselves abandoned in the desert for whatever reason. They die of hunger, even though they are able to store food in their stomachs that could potentially last them for weeks. But when their stored water supply runs out, they starve. Want the explanation? Review and find out.

* * *

"Child? You can´t mean-..." Timon was restraining himself from jumping to his feet, hands clenching around his chair´s armrests. He needed the connection to something solid or risked lashing out. In fact, there was nothing he would rather do than planting a good one on the creep´s chin, but there were consequences, and he was not sure he would ever be prepared to face them.

"Child?" Pumbaa´s face had yet to change to realisation. A trace of fond despair found its way through Timon´s fury, but he resisted the urge to pat his friend´s knee. Such an affectionate gesture felt wrong in the presence of that man who had not. Stopped. _Staring_.

"Oh, no. Just no." His knuckles started aching. "You don´t have the right to drag Simba into this." Judging by Pumbaa´s startled jerk, he had caught up.

"Yes, you would think so." Kivali practically oozed smug superiority. "Let me enlighten you on the situation."

Every word acted as a tiny dagger aiming straight for Timon´s anxious heart.

"Some years ago, my brother and his family suffered a terrible accident. He died, as did his wife, but their child survived. Somehow, he disappeared from my radar, and I don´t know how to this day. I was led to believe that my dear nephew had perished long ago. Only recently was I made aware that he still lives. I feel that it is my responsibility as well as my duty to his father to provide him with a proper upbringing... befitting his origins." He waved his hand in a smooth, careless gesture. "I am speaking of Simba, as you may have guessed by now. And there you have it." His eyes drilled into Timon. "In short – You are wrong. I do have the right."

Stunned speechless by this new revelation, his visitors goggled disbelievingly.

"Simba´s your, your _nephew_?", Timon stuttered after a long moment of silence. "Why didn´t ya get in touch, if you´re so keen on taking part in his growing up? And why", his words became more audacious by the second, "did ya resort to threats? And spying?" The cadence of his voice startled the bird resting in its iron-wrought prison. It squawked in protest, cobalt wings fluttering noisily.

"Oh, I´d just _love_ to explain myself to you." Even Pumbaa seemed to detect the sarcasm pouring out of every slick syllable, because he shifted, an unsettled movement. Kivali glanced at him with thinly veiled contempt. "But I´m afraid I have to cut our session short. I have an appointment I´d rather not miss. So if you... gentlemen... would excuse me..." His not-so-subtle nod towards the door enraged Timon even further, but there was little they could do at this time.

"Ya won´t get away with this." The redhead snatched the smooth little camera devices from Kivali´s desk and stood up, determined not to give the man the satisfaction of breaking down, no matter how bad the situation. Pumbaa got up as well. He was breathing heavily, but it was fright clouding his eyes, not anger.

"What happened to your eye?"

Timon stopped turning, more out of reflex than anything. The man gestured towards his face with a lazy finger, and the redhead´s hand involuntarily moved to touch the bruise around his eye.

"That´s none of your business, ya slimy slug!" It was immensely satisfying to watch Kivali twitch. "Keep your grubby fingers out of our lives."

As he exited the dim room with Pumbaa in tow, squinting at the neon bright colors greeting them in the reception hall, he felt the brief flare of triumph drain away. What now?

* * *

At least one of them had a good day, Pumbaa mused as they sat together in the evening, listening to Simba retelling the story of two rivals clashing in an epic struggle for superiority.

"... -And then, Irons was _this_ close to get expulsed for headbutting Broderick – that guy´s _really_ aggressive like, _all_ the time, he already got three red cards this season, I dunno why they allow him to keep his squad position – but in the end he didn´t even get carded! The _Lions_ got a free kick out of it, though-..."

"Whiiich made it 1-0. You already said that, sonny", grumbled Max, clutching his tea mug with a pained expression. "Then again, I might be wrong. I don´t hear so well at the moment. Could be because I _spent the entire day in a stadium_!"

"And how awesome was that?" Simba´s enthusiasm could not be curbed that easily. "Man, I wish I could go every wee-..." His voice cracked, and he coughed.

"Take it easy, kid." Timon set a glass of orange juice in front of him, then pulled out a creasy slip of paper and a pen, adding a scrawl to the list that covered about half of its lined surface. "Ya probably screamed yerself hoarse in there."

"And deaf", Max interjected vengefully.

"Sounds like you had a gread time! Say, I thought Broderick wasn´t going to play today because of his torn ligament." Swallowing a gulp of juice, Simba turned to Pumbaa, happy to have someone show interest in his tale.

"Papa, that was weeks ago, remember? He´s better now. But you should´ve seen Guillaume! Y´know, the guy who transferred from PSG? I mean, he´s old, at least _thirty_ , but _wow_!"

"Oi!" Timon pretended to take offense to the boy´s last comment. "Thirty´s not old. Why, I oughtta-..." He began to rub the top of Simba´s head mercilessly, and when the child yelled in protest, something like a smile began to form on his face for the first time since their visit to Shadow Corporations.

Pumbaa set down his coffee cup and stole Simba´s drink. Some of the liquid sloshed over the rim, onto the yellowed table cloth. Max yelped in horror.

"Papa, no", Simba screeched when he discovered the theft. "That´s mine!"

"Too bad. It´s mine now." He made a great show of savouring the spoils of his thievery. "Mmh, it´s very good."

"Well, we´re all outta juice now." Timon waved his piece of paper portentously. "Looks like we´ll have to go out for some groceries tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Simba´s wail of despair pierced the air, making Max flinch and rub his ears. "What am I supposed to drink till then? I´ll dry out because Papa stole _my_ juice!"

"Don´t be ridiculous. We still have a perfectly good sink over there." Pumbaa shrugged. "Also, I don´t know what you´re talking about."

"But I don´t _like_ water-... What do you mean? My orange juice. You just drank it!"

"I did?" Pumbaa slowly shook his head, black hair teetering in tact with the motion. "You must have imagined it."

"I didn´t! I have witnesses." Simba looked around, seeking validation.

"Don´t look at me, sprout." Their taxing day together was still fresh in Max´s memory. "I won´t get involved in this."

"Dad."

"Hmmm?" Letting the sound vibrate in his throat, the redhead raised his eyebrows. "I´m afraid an old geezer like me doesn´t hear so well. Ya see, my old age makes my eyes and ears _really_ bad."

Simba shot him a betrayed look. "But he _spilled_ it!"

"He did." Max tapped a finger onto the moist spot. "And he´s gonna pay the dry cleaning bill. I´m _not_ putting it into my washing mashine."

"I´ll drop it off tomorrow", Pumbaa promised, and the old man changed the topic.

"Now that you´ve heard all about how awful _our_ day has been-..."

"Awesome-..."

"...-Why don´t you tell us what you´ve been up to?" Strangely enough, he actually seemed reluctant to broach the subject. Then again, it was hard to imagine Max wishing for a detailed account of what the couple had done, could have done and was likely to do again. Pumbaa had to give him credit. Now that they had gotten somewhat used to each other and Max had made a great effort to overcome his averseness to his nephew´s male partner, the man´s company had almost become genial.

"... Right. Yeah. Simba, you´re excused. I know you´re dying to get upstairs and play that weird crash game." It was a weak attempt to get rid of Simba for the following conversation, Pumbaa concluded when the boy frowned at Timon´s nervously delivered remark. But it worked. The kid got up, grabbing his freshly acquired _Lions_ scarf and thundered out of the room, already fumbling his cell phone from his pocket.

"Well", Max said dryly when the last of Simba´s footsteps had faded, "that wasn´t at all suspicious. What did you do, brat?"

In a rare display of self control, Timon did not rise to the provocation. "Trust me, ya wouldn´t wanna have the kid overhear this, either." Melodic tinkling drowned out his next sentence, and Pumbaa lifted a hand.

"That´s mine. ´Scuse me."

Someone was calling him, which was unusual in itself. People usually did not call him except about work-related issues, and since he had explicitly stated his desire not to be contacted during his vacation, it would have to be an emergency. The same went for his parents; they were old-fashioned, regarding all forms of modern technology with cautionary eyes. It was Pumbaa who had set them up with a telephone connection, and even so, it was mostly he who gave them a ring. His display stated the caller´s unknown identity.

"Hello?", he offered, holding his phone against one curious ear.

"Mr. Matama? Is that you?"

"That´s right. Who is this?"

"It´s me, Neema. I-... You gave me your number when I moved in next door."

"... Yes! Of course. Hello. How are you?" Pumbaa remembered the mousy young woman who had moved into the house next to theirs a couple of months ago. She mostly kept to herself, as far as the big man could tell, but they sometimes bumped into each other on the street, exchanging pleasantries. Once, they had asked her to watch their house while they were gone on a family trip, and they had found it in impeccable condition on their return.

"I´m... well, thank you. But there´s been-... I mean, are you at home?"

"Actually, no. Why do you ask?" The woman´s tinny voice sounded skittish, as if she was bracing herself for some bad news. Pumbaa´s stomach twinged unpleasantly, even though she seemed rather jumpy for the majority of their meetings. "Is everything alright?"

"I-I´m not sure. I just came back from my work trip, and I saw the open door, but all the lights are out, so I wanted to make sure..."

"Hold on. Open door? Did someone break into your home?"

"No", and Pumbaa could hear the fright in Neema´s tremulous intake of breath. "I think... Someone broke into yours."

* * *

Max was no fool. The moment his nephew´s large friend stepped through the kitchen door, he knew something was off.

"Eh", he gave Timon a rough nudge to steer his eyes towards the shaken newcomer and watched as the young man paled at the sight.

"Pumbaa!" Timon had sprung to his feet in an instant, rushing towards his partner. "What happened?"

As he guided the man to a chair, Max pretended to turn his attention to his mug of rapidly cooling liquid, but he shrewdly kept his senses focused on the spectacle that would likely unfold. He did have a dramatic streak, for all that he attributed his admittedly strong reactions to outside influences and similarly agonizing occurrences to his misanthropic character. As for now, he might as well endure the two youngsters´ crucifyingly saccarine interaction.

Pumbaa let himself fall into the profferred chair, and his heavy shoulders settled into the backrest. He looked lost, for lack of a better expression, and Max grimaced. That boy was _way_ too open with his feelings, a lily-livered sponge. Not that he cared about the starry-eyed twerp. He was too soft to keep up with the curveballs the world threw at him. It was a wonder he had managed to keep Timon´s interest for so long.

Contrary to what his cheeky young relative might think, he did not object to his tastes or anything particular about the man he had chosen. What he did value was strength, of character as well as of conviction. Max knew what survival took out of a man. He had tried to pass his instincts on to his nephew, and at least _some_ of his common sense had survived in the latest generation.

But Pumbaa was different, and he had kept his blue-eyed position despite all of Max´s efforts to toughen him up. He had tried the cold shoulder, but the man had pressed forward. His insults had been met with patience, his disdain with sympathy. What had sent his nephew into snivelling outrage had not phased Pumbaa in the slightest.

At first, Max had deemed it a clever disguise. Then, he had hoped it would be. By now, that hope had dwindled into that special kind of limbo that made it impossible to retrieve anything out of it.

"There was-..." Pumbaa cleared his throat. "I think someone broke in. Back at home, I mean."

"You-... What?" Timon took him by the shoulders. "Start making sense, or I´ll slap ya silly." He gasped when Pumbaa grabbed his shoulders in return and held on for dear life, desperately searching for his partner´s eyes. "A-alright, buddy, take it easy, will ya?"

"Our door was busted open! Neema called, she said-..."

"Hang on. Neema?", Timon demanded, trying to pry Pumbaa´s iron hold loose. Momentarily jolted out of his shock, Pumbaa concentrated on answering his friend´s inquiry.

"She, uh-... Neighbor girl, moved in a couple of months back-..."

"... Ah. What about her?"

"She said our door was open when she got home today. Looked like somebody pried it open. She didn´t go inside, though, and I told her to keep it that way." He breathed deeply, some of the hysteria dissolving. "But she looked through the windows, and she thinks someone messed with the inside, too."

"Woah, wait, wait. What you´re saying is some crook sniffed out our home? Are ya fricking serious? That´s-..." Timon´s face turned livid, then cleared into calculation. "What if..."

"What?" Pumbaa shook him a little, anxious to make the redhead spill his thoughts. Timon glared at him and wrenched himself out of the death grip.

"Don´t ya get it? It´s gotta be him. That-..." He pronounced the word with contempt. " _Uncle_."

Pumbaa´s eyes flickered to Max, and Timon flicked a finger against his cheek. "Not _him_. Kivali."

"... Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_. But what if he left something behind? He – or they – didn´t even bother to close the damn door! There´s a good chance we´ll find something that ties him to our home invasion-..."

"Now just _hold on a sec._ " So far, Max had kept his tongue. But the more he heard, the less he understood. "What in the devil´s name is going on?" Timon had not exactly gotten far with his explanation before his better half had stumbled in like someone had whacked him with a cricket bat.

His nephew gave him a baffled look, until he finally shook his head. "Sorry, Uncle Max, we gotta go. Now, if ya could keep an eye on Simba..." It was not a question.

"I don´t appreciate your tone, boy." Wind rattled the window frames as they stared at each other, Pumbaa ducking aside in search of something. "I asked you a question-... And what do you mean, you gotta go? Now? Are you bleedin´ _mad_? It´s _late_. You don´t want to take a drive right now, sonnyboy."

"I don´t need ya to tell me what I can and can´t do", Timon hissed, and Max was forcefully reminded of earlier days, when the younger man had not yet acquired his confidence, but had been independent enough to lash out at anyone who tried to get him to do something.

"Obviously, you do!" It might not have been the most prudent course of action to belittle his nephew, but would have to do. Max was not in the proper mood to coddle him. Actually, he had never felt the need to coddle anyone and anything (although he had developed suspicious tendrils of something approaching fondness for their little rascal). It was a tough world out there, and that boy had better start listening to his elders. Experience was nothing to scoff at, after all.

But as they stared each other down in his shabby little kitchen, wind still blasting like it had a personal grudge against them, beating the bony twigs of his young willow against the glass, he had to wonder where he went wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

Author´s Note: Since I seem to have suddenly remembered that I have a story to work on, here´s an update. It´s a little shorter than I would have liked, and the first part is completely disconnected from the rest, but here you go anyway. I´d also like to thank everyone who left their kind words to someone who is always grateful to receive them and utterly abysmal at reacting accordingly. Gracias, domo arigatou, danke, merci, Спасибо, you get the gist, I´m sure.

Fun Fact: The _Mona Lisa_ is one of the most famous paintings in human history, but not many people realise that the muse´s name was not "Mona", which is a shortened version of the Italian "Madonna". If art research has not lead us completely astray, the portrayed woman was Lisa del Giocondo, so that part is more or less correct at least.

* * *

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"If you had three free wishes... What would you wish for?"

"Wishes? Where would I get _those_ from?"

"Uh-..."

"Well! How am I supposed to know they won´t backfire on me then, huh?"

"Okay, let´s say a... I dunno, a wishing whale granted you some wishes because, because you threw it back into the ocean-..."

"A what now? A _whale_? Kid, I appreciate your imagination, but that doesn´t really sound like the kind of thing that would happen _realistically_."

"I _know_! Just go with it, okay?"

"Alright, alright. Geez. Three wishes, right?"

"Yes."

"Hm. I´d... I´d... Ugh. That´s a strange question out of the blue. Lemme think about it."

"... Okay... Hey Papa!"

"Yeah, Simba?"

"What would _you_ do with three wishes?"

"Three? You know, that´s a lot. I wouldn´t know what to do with one, let alone _three_. I guess I´m pretty happy with the way things are now."

"B-but if you could have _anything_ -..."

"Well, I don´t need magic to get what I really want. I´m sure there would be another way to get it. Wait, I know! What about world peace?"

"No, you can´t wish for world peace. Everybody knows about _that_."

"Then... No clue."

"Argh!"

"What would _you_ wish for, Simba?"

"... Me?"

"I _did_ say your name..."

"I would wanna go to Brazil! No, the entire world! And I would wish for a talking turtle. That´d be so rad! No wait, make that a bird. I could use it as a messenger bird, and it wouldn´t _ever_ lose the message because it could memorize it!"

"Ya ever hear of a phone, kid?"

"You don´t get it, Dad. A _talking bird_."

"Tch. _Teenagers_."

* * *

They arrived in the early morning hours, having set off at an ungodly hour that had left even Pumbaa in a foul mood. Additionally, he felt bad about leaving Simba behind _again_ ; if they kept going like that, they would end up alienating the boy and possibly cause irreparable harm to his young and pliant sensibilities. But anything, they had concluded in their late-night debate, was better than having him face the invasion of what they all considered their safe space so far. Even as they climbed the stairs towards their front porch, Pumbaa struggled to remain calm and still prepare himself for the worst.

As it turned out, the factual damage was minimal. Apart from the front door which had obviously been pried open violently, almost nothing had been touched as far as they could assertain. Still, certain items had been moved, and the change was conspicuous enough to be classified as deliberate.

As a habit formed by the regular presence of a small child around, Timon did not swear often, but the few choice words he muttered over the particularly aggressive placement of a standard set of cutlery made Pumbaa´s ears burn.

"We´ll have to call the police", he said to quench the nauseating feeling that was currently blanketing his innards, a blanket best described as an axe killers homecoming gift made of steelwool and laced with noxious mud.

"Right." Timon´s laugh was a brittle thing. "Because that´s guaranteed to get us somewhere."

"It might", Pumbaa persisted. "Maybe whoever snooped around left something, I don´t know. We _won´t_ know, unless we try to find out."

His partner´s face clearly told a different tale, but he reached for his phone nonetheless. Pumbaa went into the kitchen where he was almost immediately distracted by a strange scribble on their pinboard, but upon further inspection discovered that it was in fact one of Simba´s strange little doodles he liked to leave in his school books and occasionally around the house. This one depicted some sort of cat wrangling an even tinier creature and a crudely drawn speech bubble declaring, _Thats for Ratting me out!_

He felt his face tighten with the kind of prickly emotion only the closest to him could incite. Sometimes he was uncertain whether the feeling was actually a good one. Before he could dwell further on it, Timon burst into the room, phone dangling precariously between two fingers.

"On hold! They put me on hold! Can ya believe it? It´s an emergency call, and they told me to _get in line_!"

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?", Pumbaa snapped, and his reply held such a sharp tone that Timon paused mid-stride, eyes rapidly flitting over his friend´s face with more concern than indignation. He had obviously not expected the heated retort, but Pumbaa could not bring himself to regret it. That would come later, he knew. For now, he felt like the slightest thing could set him off. Definitely a bad thing, his mind supplied in reference to his fragile emotional state. Get a hold of yourself.

"Hey there", said Timon as he conquered the distance between them and paused only when he could feel Pumbaa´s quivering intake of breath. "It´s okay, I don´t mind the wait." He hesitated, before he added, "There are probably a _lot_ of emergencies right now, ya know? It´s not like we´re in a _hurry_ to let even more strangers into our home-..."

"No, it´s okay", Pumbaa choked, recognising the awkward attempt at consolation for what it was. "I forgot-... It must be difficult for you, too-..."

"Yeah", Timon nodded carefully, never leaving Pumbaa´s eyes, "but ya seem to take it awfully hard."

"Of _course_! They didn´t stop at threatening us, now they _acted on it_! How can you be so _calm_?"

"I´m really not." When Pumbaa frowned, his partner hurried to explain. "I´m mad, buddy. Really mad. The only thing that´s keeping me from freaking out is-... Never mind." He seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Just... try to keep it together, hmm?" Before Pumbaa could react, Timon glanced down at his hand in alarm. "Oh sh-ard, I should really pay attention to this! Wouldn´t want to wait double-time, right?" And without further ado, he lifted the phone towards his ear, already making his way back out of the door.

Pumbaa did not quite know what to make of their exchange, but his attention was soon occupied by more immediate tasks, such as making a mental list of every change he could find. Open cupboard, lamp ripped out of the socket and carried to the other end of the room, forks and spoons mixed together, bathroom sink filled with-...

"Is that..." Pumbaa sniffed carefully. "What is that?"

"Let me see." Timon had joined him halfway through his meticulous inspection, telling him to keep an ear out for the door bell. Now he stepped next to Pumbaa and let his nose hover over the substance in the sink. After a moment, he dunked a finger into the liquid and tipped it delicately against his tongue, dodging Pumbaa´s alarmed grab for his hand with practiced ease. His nose wrinkled, but then he shrugged.

"It´s oil."

Pumbaa stared at him. "Like... cooking oil? What kind of oil?"

"Just-... Oil. I dunno what _kind_. Would ya care for a taste and find out for yourself? There´s plenty, in case you _hadn´t noticed_."

"Oh."

"It´s gonna be a b-other cleaning that up." Pumbaa had not realised how skillful Timon had gotten at dodging potentional verbal hazards, with or without Simba in the immediate vicinity. Speaking of whom...

"Have you gotten around to take a look at Simba´s room yet?"

"No, actually." Timon took off, but Pumbaa lingered behind, oddly fascinated by the slick substance coating the smooth rims of their sink. His hand lifted almost by its own accord, moving closer and closer to the surface, the tip of his middle finger barely a hair´s breadth away from the liquid contents, when Timon shouted his name. He sounded alarmed, and Pumbaa nearly crashed into the bathroom door in his haste to get to him.

The reason for his surprise revealed itself to Pumbaa when he crossed the threshold to their child´s room. Mountains of stuffed toys covered Simba´s bed, his desk, his chair and any available surface apart from the floor.

"What-..."

"Look at this!" Timon gestured vaguely towards the center of the room, irate. "That´s sick, is what it is. For God´s sake, that´s our _kid´s_ room. He _shouldn´t have been in here_!"

Pumbaa´s queasy feeling returned full force, and he struggled to keep control of his expression as he stepped around Timon to pick up one of the unwelcome gifts, a penguin the size of his head. It was adorable in the floppy, glassy-eyed way that every stuffed animal seemed to embody. It stung.

"I´m gonna make myself a cup of coffee", said Timon, and his voice broke at the last word. Pumbaa watched his rigid back disappearing behind the door, and he knew his friend had just as hard a time dealing with this new discovery as he did. It was exactly why he chose not to follow the redhead; in their high-strung condition, they would undoubtedly end up fighting which was of no help to anyone. Instead, Pumbaa took his time sifting through the masses of soft and plushy and coarse and bristly toys, and by the time he came to the realization that he should have left it alone, what if the police wanted to look at it as well, oh, he _really_ should have stayed away, _what if he had destroyed some kind of evidence_ -..., the doorbell rang.

Timon was rushing towards the front door by the time Pumbaa approached the stairs leading towards the ground floor, pushing the knob with jittery hands. It took both of them a good few seconds to recognise the person ducking on the doormat.

"Neema. Thanks for coming on such a short notice. Ah, get inside, if ya would!"

Pumbaa´s confusion at her presence subsided when his partner continued. "The police aren´t here yet, so ya should have a couple of minutes to think about the statement that ya wanna give to them."

She nodded jerkily, shifting from one leg to the other as if she did not know what to do with herself now that she was inside, which was probably accurate. Pumbaa offered her a seat in the kitchen. A minute passed by in uncomfortable silence.

"So", Timon fumbled for words, "what´ve ve ya been up to?" Judging by the plump young woman´s wide eyes, he might as well have asked her for direction to the nearest brothel, and he prompted: "Ya were gone for a while?"

"O-oh", she stuttered. "Yes. For work." She clammed right back up, and after a moment Timon tilted his head thoughtfully.

"... Ah." Apparently deciding that any further attempt at cordiality was wasted on her, he disappeared, leaving Pumbaa to deal with their guest.

"Okay", he clapped his hands together, and the sound made her flinch, "would you like a cup of coffee? Tea, perhaps?" She nodded shyly, but no words came over her lips. Pumbaa was mystified (and, to his shame, pleased) to notice the existance of people with even lesser social inclinations than theirs.

As soon as she was cradling a steaming mug in her hands, he sat down at her side. "So. Can you tell me a nything you remember about yesterday evening? You didn´t say a lot over the phone."

"There wasn´t much to tell, honestly", she glanced at him, some of her tension finally fading from her posture. "Lights were out, which I found odd because your house is usually lit when I come home from work, and your door looked... weird." Her head tilted at an odd angle, Pumbaa registered dimly, frizzly black hair throwing odd shadows against the wall. "Because it was open."

"But you didn´t go inside."

"No", she confirmed. "I didn´t want to. I mean, creepy dark house with a gaping door, hello?" Her nervous giggling was cut short when Timon stuck his head through the door.

"Sorry to interrupt. The police are here. They wanna talk to ya."

"Oh. Y-yes." In her haste to get up, she knocked over the tea mug with her elbow, pale liquid sloshing over the edge of the table top. "Sorry!"

"It´s okay", Pumbaa assured her, already reaching for a towel. "I got it."

She stumbled out of the kitchen like a stomping sigh, taking all the energy with her, and Pumbaa did not quite start as a hand pressed down on his back.

"Geez, would ya relax?" The pressure disappeared, but Pumbaa felt its absence searing into his spine. The rest of him felt utterly numb, and at that moment, he was certain he would not ever be able to move again.

The sensation faded when Timon took the seat that had been previously occupied by their young neighbor and took the crumpled towel from his hands. Pumbaa could barely summon enough energy to watch him carelessly tossing it on the kitchen counter and then gripping his hands with only the slightest amount of hesitation, skin damp and cool. Pumbaa saw his own hands clench tightly around his friend´s fingers, and the ability to consciously perceive rushed back into his head.

"Don´t sulk", Timon said gently, "it doesn´t suit ya."

Sulking was a weak word to describe what he had experienced only moments ago, but Pumbaa played along, anxious to return to normalcy.

"Aw. You know you love it." To his surprise, his partner failed to produce the shit-eating grin that would otherwise have been firmly fixed on his face by now. Timon shook his head instead.

"Not like this."

"What are we going to do?" The question came out more desperate than he intended to.

"We", Timon answered slowly, and Pumbaa was taken aback by the dark tone, "are going to _bury_ that guy."

"O-oh, but-..."

"Not _literally_!" Pumbaa was ashamed at the amount of relief he felt when his friend recoiled visibly, offended that the man had, even for a second, come to that particular conclusion. "Look around, Pumbaa! He won´t stop on his own, and I won´t put up with any more of that _crap_." He looked briefly tempted to slam his clenched fist onto the table, but then seemed to think better of it. "So here´s what we´re gonna do."


End file.
